ENGLISH 


THE 

GREAT  MODERN 
ENGLISH  STORIES 

AN   ANTHOLOGY 


COMPILED  AND  EDITED 
WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION 

BY 

EDWARD  J.   O'BRIEN 


NEW  YORK 
BONI    AND    LIVERIGHT 


Copyright,  1919, 
By  Boni  &  Liveright,  Inc. 


Printed  in  the  U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS 

PAGB 

INTRODUCTION Edward  J.  O'Brien  v 

THE  THREE  STRANGERS Thomas  Hardy  i 

A  LODGiNjGLEOR  THE  NIGHT  ....  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  ^  26 

THE  STAR-CHILD Oscar  Wilde  47 

THE  DYING  OF  FRANCIS  DONNE.  ..  .Ernest  Dowson  64 

To  NANCY Sir  Frederick  Wedmore  75 

AN  EMPTY  FRAME George  Egerton  88 

THE  THREE  MUSKETEERS Rudyard  Kipling  /  93  •*•*- 

WEE  WILLIE  WINKIE Rudyard  Kipling  ^  99 

How  GAVIN  BIRSE  PUT  IT  TO  MAG  LOWNIE. 

Sir  J.  M.  Barrie  in  •«— - - 

THE  FISHER  OF  MEN Fiona  Macleod  117 

QUATTROCENTISTERIA Maurice  Hewlett  126 

THE  STOLEN  BACILLUS H.  G.  Wells  144 

OLD  AESON Sir  Arthur  T.  Quitter-Couch  152   • 

THE  FIRE  OF  PROMETHEUS Henry  W.  Nevimon  157 

THE  MAN  WHO  PLAYED  UPON  THE  LEAF 

Algernon  Blackwood  176 

AN  OJ.D  THORN W.  H.  Hudson  196 

THE  FOURTH  MAGUS R.  B.  Cunninghame  Graham  214 

THE  GHOST  SHIP Richard  Middleton  .  225 

BUSINESS  is  BUSINESS John  Trevena  236 

£  THE,  CHINK  AND  THE  CHILD.-. Thomas  Burke  250 

MONSIEUR  FELICITE Hugh  Walpole  263 

RED  AND  WHITE Roland  Pertwee  278 

MAN  AND  BRUTE E.  L.  Grant  Watson  296 

"Tr^  LOST  SUBURB /.  D.  Beresford  309 

THE   EIRTH   OF   AN   ARTIST.  ..  .Hugh  de  Selincourt  322 

A  SICK  COLLIER Z>.  H.  Lawrence  332 

/  GREATER  THAN  LOVE Caradoc  Evans  340^: — 

BIRTH Gilbert  Cannan  346 

BIOGRAPHIES  AND  BIBLIOGRAPHY 355 


INTRODUCTION 


While  it  is  true  that  the  short  story  as  a  literary  form  is 
almost  the  youngest  child  of  the  writing  art,  it  is  interesting 
to  realise  that  the  germ  of  the  modern  short  story  may  be 
found  in  the  earliest  literatures,  and  that  the  human  craving 
for  an  interesting  short  tale  is  as  old  as  the  history  of  the 
race.  The  short  story,  as  we  know  it  to-day,  is  a  highly 
developed  and  most  sophisticated  form,  but  its  tradition 
extends  backward  through  many  literatures  to  old  Eastern 
tales.  Even  in  English  literature,  it  is  hardly  stretching  a 
point  to  claim  that  Chaucer  was  the  first  great  English  short 
story  writer,  and  if  we  examine  the  English  literary  heritage, 
going  backward  from  century  to  century,  we  shall  see  that 
the  tradition  of  tale  telling  is,  on  the  whole,  continuous, 
though  for  the  most  part  the  tale  is  told  for  its  own  sake, 
and  not  for  the  sake  of  characterisation  or  the  dramatic 
presentation  of  forces  in  conflict. 

But  the  modern  short  story  in  its  more  rudimentary  form 
does  not  extend  much  further  back  in  English  literature  than 
Defoe,  and  as  such  it  is  more  or  less  the  contemporary  of 
the  English  novel.  Defoe's  narrative  of  the  Strange  Appa- 
rition to  Mrs.  Veal  is  probably  the  first  conscious  effort  to 
write  a  modern  short  story  in  English.  And  for  some  time 
to  come  it  was  the  last.  There  were  brief  narratives  and 
allegories  to  be  sure,  such  as  Addison's  Vision  of  Mirzah, 
which  approaches  the  short  story  form  more  nearly  than 
that  of  the  essay,  and  there  were  occasional  episodes  in 
novels,  which  had  a  narrative  unity  and  could  be  detached 
without  injury  from  their  setting,  such  as  The  Tale  of  the 
Old  Man  of  the  Hill  in  Fielding's  Tom  Jones.  But  these 
were  only  short  stories  by  accident,  and  it  does  not  seem  to 
have  occurred  to  English  writers  of  fiction  that  the  short 


vi  INTRODUCTION 

story  was  a  literary  form  susceptible  of  elaborate  develop- 
ment until  nearly  a  century  had  passed. 

Its  discovery  as  a  popular  literary  form  probably  dates 
from  the  beginnings  of  the  Scottish  literary  circle.  We 
find  the  short  story  already  shaping  itself  into  absorbing 
narrative  with  Scott,  Hogg,  and  many  of  the  writers  for 
Blackwood's  Magazine,  and  the  tradition  these  men  inaugu- 
rated lingered  on  well  into  the  nineteenth'  century  as  an 
important  aspect  of  Scottish  letters,  notably  in  such  a 
masterpiece  as  Rab  and  His  Friends  by  Dr.  John  Brown. 
Scott  was  mindful  of  Fielding,  and  his  best  short  story, 
Wandering  Willie's  Tale,  as  most  readers  will  recall,  was 
introduced  as  an  episode  into  a  long  novel,  as  a  resting 
point  for  the  reader's  attention. 

Thackeray  also  introduced  a  short  story  which  satisfies 
all  the  essential  requirements  of  the  literary  form  in 
Barry  Lyndon,  while  Dickens,  whose  incessant  and  de- 
lighted curiosity  about  the  human  race  created  countless 
characters,  found  that  many  of  them  could,  be  presented 
most  directly  and  happily  in  short  narratives,  which  be- 
came more  and  more  like  the  modern  short  story  that  we 
know. 

There  was  an  intermediate  period  of  competent  work  by 
many  lesser  men,  but  not  much  can  be  said  for  its  perma- 
nent literary  quality.  The  development  of  the  short  story 
had  passed  into  the  hands  of  craftsmen  in  other  countries. 
Poe  and  de  Maupassant  in  America  and  France  had  fixed  its 
form,  and  they  were  the  true  pioneers  who  eventually  shaped 
the  main  outlines  of  the  English  and  American  short  stor> 
as  we  find  it  to-day.  But  their  influence  was  not  sharph 
felt  at  first  in  England,  and  the  decay  of  the  English  shor; 
story  was  comparable  in  kind,  if  not  in  degree,  with  the 
decay  of  the  English  drama  during  the  same  period. 

Three  Englishmen  may  fairly  claim  to  have  rescued  i;: 
from  its  parlous  state.  All  three  were  novelists  first,  an., 
short  story  writers  only  in  a  secondary  sense  from  their 
point  of  view,  but  each  contributed  something  dynamic  to 
the  art,  and  it  is  with  the  period  which  they  represented  :o 
adequately,  that  I  have  thought  it  best  to  begin  this  r  * 


INTRODUCTION  vii 

lection  of  stories.  The  earlier  stories  can  readily  be  found 
in  many  collections,  and  are  for  the  most  part  extremely 
well  known.  My  object  here  is  to  present  an  adequate 
cross-section  of  the  best  work  that  has  been  done  since 
George  Meredith,  Thomas  Hardy,  and  Robert  Louis  Steven- 
son inaugurated  the  present  era  in  the  English  short  story. 

George  Meredith's  five  short  stories  are  each  as  long  as  the 
average  novelette,  and  accordingly  he  is  not  represented  in 
this  collection,  but  they  have  the  unity  of  the  true  short 
story,  and  in  them  there  is  a  keen  preoccupation  with  the 
subtleties  of  characterisation  which  was  hitherto  uncommon 
in  the  English,  as  opposed  to  the  American,  short  story. 
I  suppose  his  masterpiece  in  this  genre  is  The  Tale  of  Ckloe, 
a  delicately  woven  study  of  place,  idyllic  in  its  portraiture, 
whose  outward  frailty  conceals  vigorous  delineation  and  a 
poignancy  deftly  rendered  by  suggestion. 

Thomas  Hardy  brought  to  the  short  story  a  tragic  irony 
in  sharp  contrast  to  the  comic  irony  of  Meredith.  His 
method  is  relentless,  and  by  economy  of  background,  with 
spare  strokes  and  broad  outlines,  he  conveys  a  pressing 
sense  of  destiny  brooding  over  man  and  his  works  and 
guiding  them  into  inevitable  courses.  The  best  of  his 
short  stories  are  to  be  found  in  Wessex  Tales  and  A  Group 
of  Noble  Dames,  and  I  have  chosen  as  typically  representa- 
tive of  his  excellences  The  Three  Strangers,  the  story  which 
in  my  opinion  is  destined  to  live  longest  by  reason  of  its 
classical  structure,  vivid  contrasts,  complete  realisation  of 
background,  and  sharp  dramatic  portraiture. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson  brought  romance  back  to  the 
short  story,  and  reminded  English  writers  that  a  good  story 
was  worth  telling  purely  for  its  own  sake.  He  gave  the 
English  short  story  buoyancy  and  glad  directness,  seeking 
and  finding  the  essential  magic  of  words  and  pictures. 
These  qualities  are  well  illustrated  in  A  Lodging  for  the 
Night,  in  which  the  essence  of  a  period  is  captured  and 
rendered  in  fine  nervous  rhythms.  He  was  not  preoccupied 
with  theses,  and  was  content  to  stand  or  fall  as  a  story- 
teller, but  his  preoccupation  with  style  was  unceasing,  and 
he  cared  enough  about  style  to  adjust  his  medium  unfalter- 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

ingly  to  the  substance  which  it  was  to  shadow,  while  always 
avoiding  preciosity. 

Meredith,  Hardy,  and  Stevenson,  therefore,  revived  the 
literary  tradition  of  the  short  story,  and  at  the  same  time 
they  humanised  it.  It  is  true,  of  course,  that  many  of  the 
men  who  followed  them  used  it  as  a  tapestry  on  which  to 
embroider  stiff  patterns,  and  the  English  fin  de  siecle  move- 
ment offers  many  examples  of  what  they  accomplished  in 
this  way  with  careful  craftsmanship  and  discreet  elimination 
of  all  human  elements.  But  we  are  scarcely  concerned  with 
these  men  here.  They  are  interesting  to  the  student  of 
literature  and  of  literary  forms,  but  they  did  not  affect  per- 
manently the  course  of  the  short  story  art. 

Three  men  who  were  notably  representative  of  their  age 
have  left  more  or  less  enduring  short  stories  behind  them, 
and  they  are  represented  in  this  collection.  Oscar  Wilde  in 
the  b£st  of  his  fairy  tales  attained  a  conscious  simplicity 
which  is  based  upon  very  subtle  and  sophisticated  conven- 
tions. I  have  chosen  The  Star-Child  as  an  adequate  exam- 
ple of  this  patterned  and  exquisite  prose.  Swinburne  and 
Morris,  among  others,  had  written  stories  in  the  same  tra- 
dition, but  I  consider  Wilde  the  more  representative,  inas- 
much as  in  his  stories  two  periods  meet  faultlessly  in  a  mo- 
ment of  perfect  transition.  Ernest  Dowson  and  Frederick 
Wedmore  are  less  known  as  story-tellers,  but  quite  as 
significant,  not  only  because  of  their  influence,  but  on 
account  of  the  very  individual  quality  of  their  work.  While 
it  is  true  that  these  men  are  typical  embodiments  of  the 
spirit  of  their  time,  each  had  a  personal  vision,  each  devel- 
oped an  individual  style,  and  each  handed  on  a  tradition 
of  form  which  has  not  been  lost  upon  later  men.  Dowson's 
mood  was  one  of  meticulous  introspection,  and  life  as  he 
sees  it  is  reflected  through  the  lens  of  an  individual  tem- 
perament with  much  aloofness  and  natural  aesthetic  fas- 
tidiousness. In  reading  The  Dying  of  Francis  Donne,  which 
I  have  chosen  because  it  focuses  better  than  his  other  stories 
his  special  vision  of  life,  you  will  observe  that  it  is  essen- 
tially the  work  of  a  bookish  man  who  loved  old  English 
prose,  but  whose  craving  for  sensations  engendered  a  unique 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

hypersesthesia.  This  story  is  a  remarkable  contribution  to 
the  literature  of  sensibility,  and  pulses  with  a  rhythm  which 
follows  with  great  precision  the  slightest  nervous  channel  of 
his  thought. 

Wedmore  also  was  careful  to  find  the  mot  juste,  but  his 
fabric  is  most  often  less  pliable  than  that  of  Dowson,  and 
perhaps  the  one  story  from  his  pen  which  will  live  in  Eng- 
lish literature  is  his  delicate  idyl  To  Nancy,  which  I  have 
reprinted  for  its  studied  simplicity.  Few  stories  have  ren- 
dered more  poignantly  a  common  emotion,  while  preserving 
such  reticence.  The  form  which  Wedmore  adopts  is  one  of 
the  most  difficult  short  story  forms  to  handle,  yet  there  is 
an  ease  and  clarity  about  his  portrait  which  is  genuinely 
memorable.  There  were  other  men  and  women  at  this  time 
whose  work  was  notable,  though  less  representative.  Such 
were  Hubert  Crackanthorpe,  whose  untimely  end  put  a  sud- 
den termination  to  a  most  promising  talent,  and  George 
Egerton,  represented  here  with  some  adequacy  by  An 
Empty  Frame.  I  believe  that  a  new  edition  of  Hubert 
Crackanthorpe  would  be  a  fine  public  service,  but  his  par- 
ticular medium  sets  him  apart  somewhat  from  the  scope  of 
the  present  collection. 

So  far  the  English  short  story  was  a  vehicle  for  literary 
craftsmen  whose  chief  medium  was  the  novel  or  poetry,  but 
not  quite  thirty  years  ago  a  young  man  came  out  of  India 
who  was  destined  not  only  to  revolutionize  the  form  of  the 
short  story,  but  to  make  it  one  of  the  most  popular  forms 
of  literary  expression.  Rudyard  Kipling  had  been  contrib- 
uting short  sketches  of  Indian  life  to  obscure  Indian  news- 
papers for  some  years  before  his  work  appeared  in  England, 
and  many  of  these  sketches  had  been  gathered  into  small 
volumes  published  locally.  When  they  were  first  reprinted 
in  England,  Mr.  Kipling  found  himself  famous  over  night. 
Since  the  days  of  Byron,  no  English  writer  had  achieved 
such  instantaneous  success.  It  was  immediately  recognised 
that  a  great  new  force  had  appeared  in  English  letters. 
Work  such  as  this  followed  no  tradition,  but  its  sheer  vitality 
and  brutal  strength  imposed  itself  upon  the  public,  and 
these  Indian  stories  will  always  stand  as  the  finest  achieve- 


x  INTRODUCTION 

ment  of  English  short  story-telling.  They  brought  back  to 
England  a  sense  of  alien  strangeness,  of  great  unknown 
forces  pulsating  with  a  life  of  their  own.  They  had  colour, 
terseness,  and  an  acid  portraiture  hitherto  unknown,  yet 
they  were  warm  with  familiar  human  qualities,  and  they 
were  the  voice  of  a  people  in  whom  Mr.  Kipling's  readers 
found  their  own  tradition  portrayed.  In  the  years  which 
have  followed  these  first  English  collections  of  his  stories, 
an  extraordinary  change  has  taken  place  in  the  quality  of 
the  man's  work.  Year  by  year  his  technique  conquered  new 
territories  and  led  his  audiences  with  him,  until  at  present 
no  student  of  the  short  story  can  find  a  better  model,  but 
with  this  technical  development  the  old  vitality  slowly  di- 
minished. Form  has  supplanted  substance,  and  in  this 
struggle  of  forces  the  artist  has  conquered  the  human  genius 
of  the  man. 

The  short  story  had  now  come  to  stay,  and  a  countless 
number  of  more  or  less  capably  endowed  writers  followed 
Mr.  Kipling's  literary  example,  with  varying  degrees  of 
success.  This  period  of  expansion  was  coincident  in  devel- 
opment with  the  founding  of  many  new  magazines,  and 
these  magazines  tended  more  and  more  to  devote  themselves 
to  fiction.  The  American  magazine,  as  we  know  it  to-day, 
has  also  developed  during  the  same  period,  and  it  was  more 
and  more  from  American  audiences  that  the  short  story 
writer  gained  recognition  and  encouragement.  At  this  point 
the  number  of  competent  short  story  writers  becomes  so 
great  that  little  more  can  be  attempted  here  than  an  indi- 
cation of  the  main  channels  of  expression  into  which  the 
new  movement  flowed,  and  the  factors  which  influenced  its 
development  into  the  literary  form  as  it  is  practised  to-day. 

Coincident  with  the  rise  of  Kipling  was  the  growth  of  a 
school  of  sentiment  led  by  J.  M.  Barrie,  whose  Window  in 
Thrums  and  Auld  Licht  Idylls,  to  mention  no  other  books, 
won  wide  recognition  for  their  delicate  fancy  and  poignant 
fidelity  to  experience.  Reading  them  to-day,  they  show 
traces  of  impermanence.  The  page  is  a  little  faded,  but  the 
human  emotion  still  rings  true  for  the  most  part,  and  Bar- 
rie's  sureness  of  touch  kept  pace  with  his  own  development. 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

In  contrast  to  his  idealisation  we  also  had  the  grey  realism 
of  Gissing,  who  was  primarily  a  novelist,  but  whose  shorter 
studies  are  faithful  pictures  of  the  life  he  knew,  though  seen 
through  the  lens  of  an  unhappy  temperament;  and  the 
sharply  etched  little  pictures  of  Arthur  Morrison,  whose 
Tales  of  Mean  Streets  is  one  of  the  minor  classics  of  the 
English  short  story. 

In  sharp  contrast  to  the  work  of  Kipling  and  that  of  the 
young  realists  was  the  poetic  vision  of  the  sea  and  its 
sailors  brought  home  to  England  by  a  young  Pole  who  had 
sailed  on  many  seas  in  English  ships,  and  found  himself  the 
adopted  son  of  an  alien  country  whose  welcome  made  Eng- 
land home.  For  the  best  part  of  a  generation,  Joseph 
Conrad  has  woven  his  wonderful  tapestry  of  mystery  and 
smouldering  flame  in  many  novels  and  short  stories,  prov- 
ing his  right  to  a  place  in  the  great  English  line  by  sympa- 
thetic inheritance.  His  work  has  that  quality  of  strange- 
ness in  beauty  found  in  the  finest  poetry,  and  his  projection 
of  the  human  mind  and  heart  into  distant  outlands  isolates 
what  is  significant  in  man's  soul  from  the  temporary  and 
shifting  patterns  of  cities  and  settled  civilisations.  His 
imagination  is  essentially  a  lonely  one,  though  his  sympathy 
with  the  human  pageant  is  none  the  less  keen  and  beautiful. 
Such  men  as  Conrad  and  Synge  who  drift  across  the  modern 
civilisations  with  eyes  looking  inward  and  contemplating 
spiritual  embers  have  been  the  best  interpreters  of  their 
time,  and  though  Conrad  was  late  in  dining  at  life's  banquet, 
the  experience  which  he  has  to  share  with  us  is  the  richer 
on  that  account. 

The  literary  artificers  were  meanwhile  maintaining  their 
own  short  story  tradition.  I  do  not  think  that  the  reader 
will  soon  forget  the  faultless  art  of  Maurice  Hewlett  in  his 
best  short  stories,  in  which  he  recreates  with  studied  fas- 
tidiousness vanished  periods  of  romance,  or  pictures  with 
sympathy  the  Italy  which  he  loves.  Such  stories  as  Quat- 
trocentisteria  and  The  Madonna  of  the  Peach-tree  are  mas- 
terpieces of  their  kind.  But  Mr.  Hewlett's  range  is  a  nar- 
row one  and  has  not  founded  a  tradition  of  its  own. 

Almost  contemporary  with  Conrad  and  Hewlett  are  the 


Xll 


INTRODUCTION 


very  different  talents  of  John  Galsworthy  and  H.  G.  Wells. 
The  quality  which  makes  Mr.  Galsworthy's  stories  note- 
worthy is  their  mellow  flavour  of  an  assimilated  past.  They 
are  quintessential  England  with  all  the  refinements  of  slow 
centuries  of  growth  and  decay,  its  richness  of  inheritance 
and  studied  art  of  existence,  its  feeling  for  tradition  and 
love  of  familiar  things  and  homely  human  ways.  It  is  an 
aristocratic  art,  and  depends  on  many  subtle  little  valua- 
tions, recognising  the  value  of  choice  and  careful  decisions 
in  daily  life,  and  the  embodiment  of  a  very  definite  ideal 
But  linked  to  this  is  Mr.  Galsworthy's  passion  for  social 
justice,  and  a  feeling  of  identification  with  the  humble  akin 
to  Dostoievsky.  He  is  the  most  charitable  of  English  story 

H  G  Wells  also  has  a  passion  for  social  justice,  but  it  is 
an  intellectual  passion  indulged  for  its  own  sake,  and  essen- 
tially a  passion  for  ideas.    You  will  find  it  reflected  in  most 
of  the  novels  in  his  later  manner,  but  as  a  short  story  writer 
he  reflects  a  quite  different  aspect  of  his  mind, 
of  his  stories  are  wild  intuitive  flights  into  the  unknown, 
often  anticipating  science  by  the  daring  candour  of  their  reso- 
lution  and  pervaded  with  a  freakish  and  quite  infectious 
humour.    Often  they  represent  excursions  into  other  planets 
or  conditions  of  existence,  but  their  verisimilitude  is  in- 
variably perfect,  and  the  worlds  of  fancy  which  Mr.  Wells 
has  created  impress  the  reader  as  very  liveable  places.    Mr 
Wells  is  usually  more  preoccupied  with  dynamic  forces  than 
with  subtle  personalities,  but  there  is  a  wistful  poetry  of 
human  realisation  about  certain  of  his  stories,  which  makes 
us  regret  that  his  preoccupation  with  other  themes  has  di- 
verted him  from  imaginative  as  distinguished  from  *anc 
or  critical  work. 

Of  the  craftsmen  who  continued  in  the  last  years  of 
nineteenth  century  and  the  early  years  of  the  present  cen- 
tury the  tradition  of  story  telling  inaugurated  by  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson,  Sir  Arthur  T.  Quiller-Couch  (' Q  )  has 
achieved  the  most  distinguished  work.  Cornwall  is  his  na- 
tive heath,  but  any  adventure  will  find  him  ready  as  a 
boon  companion,  and  the  long  series  of  tales  and  short 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

stories  which  he  has  given  us  during  the  past  quarter  of  a 
century  always  have  a  keen  tang  of  life  about  them. 

A  younger  tradition,  but  one  which  bids  fair  to  become 
one  of  the  most  vital,  is  to  be  found  in  the  poetic  animism 
of  Henry  W.  Nevinson,  Algernon  Blackwood,  and  W.  H. 
Hudson.  No  one  of  these  men  is  primarily  a  short  story 
writer.  Mr.  Nevinson's  stories  are  interludes  in  the  life  of 
a  busy  publicist  and  war  correspondent,  and  are  not  widely 
known.  But  I  believe  that  they  will  eventually  find  their 
public.  They  have  a  quality  of  romantic  nostalgia,  in  their 
return  to  the  old  lost  Greek  life  of  the  spirit,  to  which  the 
modern  mind  tends  more  and  more  to  respond,  and  I  think 
that  they  recapture  much  of  the  forgotten  fragrance  of  the 
Hellenic  feeling  for  nature  with  its  essential  severity  of 
classical  form. 

Algernon  Blackwood  also  reflects  the  nostalgic  regret  for 
the  gods  that  have  passed,  but  with  a  more  presently  vivid 
realisation  of  their  continued  existence  in  the  hearts  of  their 
few  remaining  worshippers,  and  phrases  it  more  perfectly 
than  any  other  contemporary,  save  possibly  the  fine  poet 
who  contents  herself  with  the  signature  of  "H.  D."  Black- 
wood's  love  for  the  vanished  earth-life  and  the  Mighty 
Mother  has  been  expressed  in  many  books  with  unflagging 
art,  and  his  reading  of  earth  always  rings  true.  Few  men 
have  endowed  nature  with  a  more  human  personality,  or 
been  able  to  project  their  dreams  and  desires  so  successfully 
into  channels  of  self-expression  as  this  serene  Pagan  bereft 
of  literary  followers. 

W.  H.  Hudson  has  been  equally  responsive  to  the  great 
earth  life,  and  his  classic  style  with  its  rare  colouring  and 
flexibility  probably  ensures  him  a  final  permanence  in  his 
best  work  which  is  denied  to  Nevinson  and  Blackwood. 
His  short  stories  are  few  in  number,  but  unforgettable.  The 
moral  pointed  by  the  work  of  these  three  fine  artists  is  the 
possibility  of  fulfilment  offered  by  complete  surrender  to 
the  priesthood  of  beauty,  and  their  preoccupation  with  the 
vision  they  have  seen  has  produced  a  fine  literary  flowering. 

It  is  difficult  to  classify  the  work  of  R.  B.  Cunninghame 
Graham.  He  has  been  a  soldier  of  fortune  in  many  fields 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

and  many  lands,  and  has  assimilated  many  rich  impressions 
of  men  and  places.  His  imagination  is  essentially  pictorial, 
and  his  selective  art,  though  its  range  is  narrow,  has  por- 
trayed many  of  the  pictures  he  has  seen  with  finished  ease. 
The  short  sketches  which  he  has  gathered  into  many  volumes, 
still  very  little  known  in  America,  are  often  essays  and  pen 
portraits  rather  than  short  stories,  but  there  is  a  single  qual- 
ity of  vision  in  them  all  which  reflects  the  art  of  a  short 
story  artist.  He  is  the  master  of  a  fine  morhlated  prose, 
rather  severely  patterned,  which  harks  back  rhythmically  to 
the  older  traditions  of  English  speech,  but  his  outlook  is 
essentially  modern. 

Of  the  late  Richard  Middleton,  we  may  say  that  his  spe- 
cial short  story  talent  has  little  affinity  to  any  of  his  con- 
temporaries, but  there  is  a  quality  of  style  in  his  prose  which 
often  suggests  that  of  Cunninghame  Graham,  and  accord- 
ingly I  group  them  together.  He  has  a  wistful  irony,  how- 
ever, which  is  all  his  own,  and  I  think  Stevenson  would  have 
enjoyed  immensely  the  special  quality  of  his  humour.  He 
has  an  impish  way^  of  bringing  beautiful  dreamlands  into 
a  remarkably  close  and  paradoxical  foreground,  while  main- 
taining their  subdued  light  and  mystery. 

When  we  come  to  the  younger  short  story  writers  of 
England,  who  are  in  the  full  flower  of  their  talent,  criticism 
seems  invidious,  and  selection  more  so.  But  I  have  endeav- 
oured to  have  my  selection  reflect  something  more  than  a 
personal  preference,  and  the  writers  represented  in  this  an- 
thology include,  I  think,  a  fair  cross  section  of  the  best 
that  is  now  being  done.  The  fine  regional  stories  of  John 
Trevena,  redolent  of  the  soil  and  its  folk,  the  work  of  a 
minor  English  master,  who  achieved  one  great  book  in  Furze 
the  Cruel,  and  who  is  most  undeservedly  overshadowed  by 
the  inferior  work  of  that  other  Dartmoor  storyteller  of 
talent,  Mr.  Eden  Phillpotls;  the  colourful  poetry  of  Thomas 
Burke's  studies  of  Limehouse  nights  in  London,  with  their 
plangent  Chinese  rhythms;  the  all  too  rare  imaginative  fan- 
tasies of  Hugh  Walpole;  the  delicate  studies  in  adolescence 
of  Roland  Pertwee,  which  have  something  of  Meredith's 
poetic  quality;  the  naked  struggle  of  primitive  forces  in 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

Grant  Watson's  Australian  stories;  the  subconscious  dream- 
quality  of  J.  D.  Beresford's  studies  in  place;  Hugh  de  Selin- 
court's  background  of  clean  winds  and  golden  airs  in  that 
remarkable  book,  Nine  Tales;  D.  H.  Lawrence's  sophisti- 
cated pageantry  of  heat  and  colour  and  stripped  passion; 
Qilbert  Cannan's  stark  renderings  of  provincial  life  with 
his  eye  on  the  object;  and  the  work  of  many  another  artist 
come  to  mind.  But  I  think  that  the  short  story  writer  of 
most  promise  among  them  all,  repellent  as  his  themes  for 
the  most  part  are,  is  Caradoc  Evans,  whose  Biblical  studies 
of  life  among  the  peasantry  of  West  Wales  have  an  authority 
of  personal  life  and  inevitable  rhythmic  style  which  is  alto- 
gether memorable. 

It  would  be  a  rash  critic  who  would  indulge  in  prophecy. 
This  is  the  Elizabethan  age  of  the  English  and  American 
short  story,  and  as  you  will  see,  I  have  left  the  Irish  short 
story  entirely  out  of  account.  To  these  young  writers,  one 
and  all,  life  is  eager  with  its  sense  of  discovery.  They  are 
pressing  forward  into  new  uncharted  continents  every  day, 
and  the  future  is  still  an  undiscovered  country.  It  is  a  land 
where  a  wise  critic  will  fear  to  tread,  and  so  I  draw  aside 
the  curtain  and  pass  out,  my  prologue  spoken,  leaving  you 
to  criticise  the  play. 

EDWARD  J.  O'BRIEN. 

London, 

January  31,  1919. 


THE  GREAT   MODERN 
ENGLISH  STORIES 

THE  THREE  STRANGERS l 

BY  THOMAS  HARDY 

AMONG  the  few  features  of  agricultural  England 
which  retain  an  appearance  but  little  modified  by 
the  lapse  of  centuries,  may  be  reckoned  the  high, 
grassy,  and  furzy  downs,  coombs,  or  ewe-leases,  as  they 
are  indifferently  called,  that  fill  a  large  area  of  certain  coun- 
ties in  the  south  and  south-west.  If  any  mark  of  human 
occupation  is  met  with  hereon  it  usually  takes  the  form 
of  the  solitary  cottage  of  some  shepherd. 

Fifty  years  ago  such  a  lonely  cottage  stood  on  such  a 
down,  and  may  possibly  be  standing  there  now.  In  spite 
of  its  loneliness,  however,  the  spot,  by  actual  measurement, 
was  not  more  than  five  miles  from  a  county  town.  Yet, 
what  of  that?  Five  miles  of  irregular  upland,  during  the 
long  inimical  seasons,  with  their  sleets,  snows,  rains,  and 
mists,  afford  withdrawing  space  enough  to  isolate  a  Timon 
or  a  Nebuchadnezzar;  much  less,  in  fair  weather,  to  please 
that  less  repellent  tribe,  the  poets,  philosophers,  artists, 
and  others  who  "conceive  and  meditate  of  pleasant  things." 

Some  old  earthen  camp  or  barrow,  some  clump  of  trees, 
at  least  some  starved  fragment  of  ancient  hedge,  is  usu- 
ally taken  advantage  of  in  the  erection  of  these  forlorn 
dwellings.  But,  in  the  present  case,  such  a  kind  of  shelter 

1  From  "Wessex  Tales."  By  permission  of  Harper  and  Broth- 
ers. 

I 


tHZ  GREAT  MODERN  EN  GUSH  STORIES 

been  disregarded.  Higher  Crowstairs,  as  the  house  was " 
called,  stood  '  quite  detached  and  undefended.  The  only 
reason  for  its  precise  situation  seemed  to  be  the  crossing 
of  two  footpaths  at  right  angles  hard  by,  which  may  have 
crossed  there  and  thus  for  a  good  five  hundred  years.  The 
house  was  thus  exposed  to  the  elements  on  all  sides.  But, 
though  the  wind  up  here  blew  unmistakably  when  it  did 
blow,  and  the  rain  hit  hard  whenever  it  fell,  the  various 
weathers  of  the  winter  season  were  not  quite  so  formidable 
on  the  coomb  as  they  were  imagined  to  be  by  dwellers  on 
low  ground.  The  raw  rimes  were  not  so  pernicious  as  in 
the  hollows,  and  the  frosts  were  scarcely  so  severe.  When 
the  shepherd  and  his  family  who  tenanted  the  house  were 
pitied  for  their  sufferings  from  the  exposure,  they  said  that 
upon  the  whole  they  were  less  inconvenienced  by  "wuzzes 
and  flames"  (hoarses  and  phlegms)  than  when  they  had 
lived  by  the  stream  of  a  snug  neighbouring  valley. 

The  night  of  March  28,  182-,  was  precisely  one  of  the 
nights  that  were  wont  to  call  forth  these  expressions  of 
commiseration.  The  level  rainstorm  smote  walls,  slopes, 
and  hedges  like  the  clothyard  shafts  of  Senlac  and  Crecy. 
Such  sheep  and  outdoor  animals  as  had  no  shelter  stood 
with  their  buttocks  to  the  wind;  while  the  tails  of  little 
birds  trying  to  roost  on  some  scraggy  thorn  were  blown 
inside-out  like  umbrellas.  The  gable-end  of  the  cottage 
was  stained  with  wet,  and  the  eaves-droppings  flapped 
against  the  wall.  Yet  never  was  commiseration  for  the 
shepherd  more  misplaced.  For  that  cheerful  rustic  was 
entertaining  a  large  party  in  glorification  of  the  christen- 
ing of  his  second  girl. 

The  guests  had  arrived  before  the  rain  began  to  fall, 
and  they  were  all  now  assembled  in  the  chief  or  living- 
room  of  the  dwelling.  A  glance  into  the  apartment  at 
eight  o'clock  on  this  eventful  evening  would  have  resulted 
in  the  opinion  that  it  was  as  cosy  and  comfortable  a  nook 
as  could  be  wished  for  in  boisterous  weather.  The  call- 
ing of  its  inhabitant  was  proclaimed  by  a  number  of 
highly-polished  sheep-crooks  without  stems  that  were  hung 
ornamentally  over  the  fireplace,  the  curl  of  each  shining 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS  3 

crook  varying  from  the  antiquated  type  engraved  in  the 
patriarchal  pictures  of  old  family  Bibles  to  the  most  ap- 
proved fashion  of  the  last  local  sheep-fair.  The  room 
was  lighted  by  half-a-dozen  candles,  having  wicks  only  a 
trifle  smaller  than  the  grease  which  enveloped  them,  in 
candlesticks  that  were  never  used  but  at  high-days,  holy- 
days,  and  family  feasts.  The  lights  were  scattered  about 
the  room,  two  of  them  standing  on  the  chimney-piece.  This 
position  of  candles  was  in  itself  significant.  Candles  on 
the  chimney-piece  always  meant  a  party. 

On  the  hearth,  in  front  of  a  back-brand,  to  give  sub- 
stance, blazed  a  fire  of  thorns,  that  crackled  "like  the  laugh- 
ter of  the  fool." 

Nineteen  persons  were  gathered  here.  Of  these,  five 
women,  wearing  gowns  of  various  bright  hues,  sat  in  chairs 
along  the  vail;  girls  shy  and  not  shy  filled  the  window- 
bench;  four  men,  including  Charley  Jake,  the  hedge- 
carpenter,  Elijah  New,  the  parish-clerk,  and  John  Pitcher, 
a  neighbouring  dairyman,  the  shepherd's  father-in-law, 
lolled  in  the  settle;  a  young  man  and  maid,  who  were 
blushing  over  tentative  pourparlers  on  a  life-companion- 
ship, sat  beneath  the  corner-cupboard;  and  an  elderly  en- 
gaged man  of  fifty  or  upward  moved  restlessly  about  from 
spots  where  his  betrothed  was  not  to  the  spot  where  she 
was.  Enjoyment  was  pretty  general,  and  so  much  the 
more  prevailed  in  being  unhampered  by  conventional  re- 
strictions. Absolute  confidence  in  each  other's  good 
opinion  begat  perfect  ease,  while  the  finishing  stroke  of 
manner,  amounting  to  a  truly  princely  serenity,  was  lent 
to  the  majority  by  the  absence  of  any  expression  or  trait 
denoting  that  they  wished  to  get  on  in  the  world,  enlarge 
their  minds,  or  do  any  eclipsing  thing  whatever — which 
nowadays  so  generally  nips  the  bloom  and  bonhomie  of  all 
except  the  two  extremes  of  the  social  scale. 

Shepherd  Fennel  had  married  well,  his  wife  being 
a  dairyman's  daughter  from  the  valley  below,  who  brought 
fifty  guineas  in  her  pocket — and  kept  them  there,  till  they 
should  be  required  for  ministering  to  the  needs  of  a  com- 
ing family.  This  frugal  woman  had  been  somewhat  exer- 


4      THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

cised  as  to  the  character  that  should  be  given  to  the  gath- 
ering. A  sit-still  party  had  its  advantages;  but  an  undis- 
turbed position  of  ease  in  chairs  and  settles  was  apt  to 
lead  on  the  men  to  such  an  unconscionable  deal  of  toping 
that  they  would  sometimes  fairly  drink  the  house  dry.  A 
dancing-party  was  the  alternative;  but  this,  while  avoid- 
ing the  foregoing  objection  on  the  score  of  good  drink, 
had  a  counterbalancing  disadvantage  in  the  matter  of 
good  victuals,  the  ravenous  appetites  engendered  by  the 
exercise  causing  immense  havoc  in  the  buttery.  Shep- 
herdess Fennel  fell  back  upon  the  intermediate  plan  of 
mingling  short  dances  with  short  periods  of  talk  and  sing- 
ing, so  as  to  hinder  any  ungovernable  rage  in  either.  But 
this  scheme  was  entirely  confined  to  her  own  gentle  mind: 
the  shepherd  himself  was  in  the  mood  to  exhibit  the  most 
reckless  phases  of  hospitality. 

The  fiddler  was  a  boy  of  those  parts,  about  twelve  years 
of  age,  who  had  a  wonderful  dexterity  in  jigs  and  reels, 
though  his  fingers  were  so  small  and  short  as  to  necessitate 
a  constant  shifting  for  the  high  notes,  from  which  he  scram- 
bled back  to  the  first  position  with  sounds  not  of  unmixed 
purity  of  tone.  At  seven  the  shrill  tweedle-dee  of  this 
youngster  had  begun,  accompanied  by  a  booming  ground- 
bass  from  Elijah  New,  the  parish-clerk,  who  had  thought- 
fully brought  with  him  his  favourite  musical  instrument, 
the  serpent.  Dancing  was  instantaneous,  Mrs.  Fennel  pri- 
vately enjoining  the  players  on  no  account  to  let  the  dance 
exceed  the  length  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

But  Elijah  and  the  boy,  in  the  excitement  of  their  po- 
sition, quite  forgot  the  injunction.  Moreover,  Oliver  Giles, 
a  man  of  seventeen,  one  of  the  dancers,  who  was  enamoured 
of  his  partner,  a  fair  girl  of  thirty-three  rolling  years, 
had  recklessly  handed  a  new  crown-piece  to  the  musicians, 
as  a  bribe  to  keep  going  as  long  as  they  had  muscle  and 
wind.  Mrs.  Fennel,  seeing  the  steam  begin  to  generate 
on  the  countenances  of  her  guests,  crossed  over  and  touched 
the  fiddler's  elbow  and  put  her  hand  on  the  serpent's  mouth. 
But  they  took  no  notice,  and  fearing  she  might  lose  her 
character  of  genial  hostess  if  she  were  to  interfere  too  mark- 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS  5 

edly,  she  retired  and  sat  down,  helpless.  And  so  the  dance 
whizzed  on  with  cumulative  fury,  the  performers  moving 
in  their  planet-like  courses,  direct  and  retrograde,  from 
apogee  to  perigee,  till  the  hand  of  the  well-kicked  clock  at 
the  bottom  of  the  room  had  travelled  over  the  circum- 
ference of  an  hour. 

While  these  cheerful  events  were  in  course  of  enactment 
within  Fennel's  pastoral  dwelling,  an  incident  having  con- 
siderable bearing  on  the  party  had  occurred  in  the  gloomy 
night  without.  Mrs.  Fennel's  concern  about  the  grow- 
ing fierceness  of  the  dance  corresponded  in  point  of  time 
with  the  ascent  of  a  human  figure  to  the  solitary  hill  of 
Higher  Crowstairs  from  the  direction  of  the  distant  town. 
This  personage  strode  on  through  the  rain  without  a 
pause,  following  the  little-worn  path  which,  further  on  in 
its  course,  skirted  the  shepherd's  cottage. 

It  was  nearly  the  time  of  full  moon,  and  on  this  account, 
though  the  sky  was  lined  with  a  uniform  sheet  of  drip- 
ping cloud,  ordinary  objects  out  of  doors  were  readily 
visible.  The  sad  wan  light  revealed  the  lonely  pedestrian 
to  be  a  man  of  supple  frame;  his  gait  suggested  that  he 
had  somewhat  passed  the  period  of  perfect  and  instinctive 
agility,  though  not  so  far  as  to  be  otherwise  than  rapid 
of  motion  when  occasion  required.  In  point  of  fact,  he 
might  have  been  about  forty  years  of  age.  He  appeared 
tall,  but  a  recruiting  sergeant,  or  other  person  accustomed 
to  the  judging  of  men's  heights  by  the  eye,  would  have 
discerned  that  this  was  chiefly  owing  to  his  gauntness,  and 
that  he  was  not  more  than  five  feet  eight  or  nine. 

Notwithstanding  the  regularity  of  his  tread,  there  was 
caution  in  it,  as  in  that  of  one  who  mentally  feels  his 
way;  and  despite  the  fact  that  it  was  not  a  black  coat  nor 
a  dark  garment  of  any  sort  that  he  wore,  there  was  some- 
thing about  him  which  suggested  that  he  naturally  belonged 
to  the  black-coated  tribes  of  men.  His  clothes  were  of 
fustian,  and  his  boots  hobnailed,  yet  in  his  progress  he 
showed  not  the  mud-accustomed  bearing  of  hobnailed  and 
fustianed  peasantry. 

By  the  time  that  he  had  arrived  abreast  of  the  shep- 


6      THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

herd's  premises  the  rain  came  down,  or  rather  came  along, 
with  yet  more  determined  violence.  The  outskirts  of  the 
little  homestead  partially  broke  the  force  of  wind  and 
rain,  and  this  induced  him  to  stand  still.  The  most  salient 
of  the  shepherd's  domestic  erections  was  an  empty  sty 
at  the  forward  corner  of  his  hedgeless  garden,  for  in  these 
latitudes  the  principle  of  masking  the  homelier  features  of 
your  establishment  by  a  conventional  frontage  was  unknown. 
The  traveller's  eye  was  attracted  to  this  small  building 
by  the  pallid  shine  of  the  wet  slates  that  covered  it.  He 
turned  aside,  and,  finding  it  empty,  stood  under  the  pent- 
roof  for  shelter. 

While  he  stood,  the  boom  of  the  serpent  within,  and 
the  lesser  strains  of  the  fiddler,  reached  the  spot  as  an 
accompaniment  to  the  surging  hiss  of  the  flying  rain  on 
the  sod,  its  louder  beating  on  the  cabbage-leaves  of  the 
garden,  on  the  eight  or  ten  bee-hives  just  discernible  by 
the  path,  and  its  dripping  from  the  eaves  into  a  row  of 
buckets  and  pans  that  had  been  placed  under  the  walls  of 
the  cottage.  For  at  Higher  Crowstairs,  as  at  all  such  ele- 
vated domiciles,  the  grand  difficulty  of  housekeeping  was 
an  insufficiency  of  water;  and  a  casual  rainfall  was  utilised 
by  turning  out,  as  catchers,  every  utensil  that  the  house 
contained.  Some  queer  stories  might  be  told  of  the  con- 
trivances for  economy  in  suds  and  dish-waters  that  are 
absolutely  necessitated  in  upland  habitations  during  the 
droughts  of  summer.  But  at  this  season  there  were  no 
euch  exigencies:  a  mere  acceptance  of  what  the  skies  be- 
stowed was  sufficient  for  an  abundant  store. 

At  last  the  notes  of  the  serpent  ceased  and  the  house  was 
silent.  This  cessation  of  activity  aroused  the  solitary  pedes- 
trian from  the  reverie  into  which  he  had  lapsed,  and,  emerg- 
ing from  the  shed,  with  an  apparently  new  intention,  he 
walked  up  the  path  to  the  house-door.  Arrived  here,  his 
first  act  was  to  kneel  down  on  a  large  stone  beside  the 
row  of  vessels,  and  to  drink  a  copious  draught  from  one 
of  them.  Having  quenched  his  thirst,  he  rose  and  lifted 
his  hand  to  knock,  but  paused  with  his  eye  upon  the  panel. 
Since  the  dark  surface  of  the  wood  revealed  absolutely 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS  fr 

nothing,  it  was  evident  that  he  must  be  mentally  looking 
through  the  door,  as  if  he  wished  to  measure  thereby  all 
the  possibilities  that  a  house  of  this  sort  might  include, 
and  how  they  might  bear  upon  the  question  of  his  entry. 

In  his  indecision  he  turned  and  surveyed  the  scene 
around.  Not  a  soul  was  anywhere  visible.  The  garden- 
path  stretched  downward  from  his  feet,  gleaming  like  the 
track  of  a  snail;  the  roof  of  the  little  well  (mostly  dry), 
the  well  cover,  the  top  rail  of  the  garden-gate,  were  var- 
nished with  the  same  dull  liquid  glaze;  while,  far  away  in 
the  vale,  a  faint  whiteness  of  more  than  usual  extent  showed 
that  the  rivers  were  high  in  the  meads.  Beyond  all  this 
winked  a  few  bleared  lamplights  through  the  beating  drops, 
lights  that  denoted  the  situation  of  the  country-town  from 
which  he  had  appeared  to  come.  The  absence  of  all  notes 
of  life  in  that  direction  seemed  to  clinch  his  intentions, 
and  he  knocked  at  the  door. 

Within,  a  desultory  chat  had  taken  the  place  of  move- 
ment and  musical  sound.  The  hedge-carpenter  was  suggest- 
ing a  song  to  the  company,  which  nobody  just  then  was 
inclined  to  undertake,  so  that  the  knock  afforded  a  not 
unwelcome  diversion. 

"Walk  in!"  said  the  shepherd  promptly. 

The  latch  clicked  upward,  and  out  of  the  night  our  pedes- 
trian appeared  upon  the  door-mat.  The  shepherd  arose, 
snuffed  two  of  the  nearest  candles,  and  turned  to  look  at 
him. 

Their  light  disclosed  that  the  stranger  was  dark  in  com- 
plexion, and  not  unprepossessing  as  to  feature.  His  hat, 
which  for  a  moment  he  did  not  remove,  hung  low  over  his 
eyes,  without  concealing  that  they  were  large,  open,  and 
determined,  moving  with  a  flash  rather  than  a  glance  round 
the  room.  He  seemed  pleased  with  the  survey,  and,  bar- 
ing his  shaggy  head,  said,  in  a  rich  deep  voice,  "The  rain 
is  so  heavy,  friends,  that  I  ask  leave  to  come  in  and  rest 
awhile." 

"To  be  sure,  stranger/'  said  the  shepherd.  "And  faith, 
you've  been  lucky  in  choosing  your  time,  for  we  are  hav- 
ing a  bit  of  a  fling  for  a  glad  cause — though  to  be  sure 


8      THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

a  man  could  hardly  wish  that  glad  cause  to  happen  more 
than  once  a  year." 

"Nor  less,"  spoke  up  a  woman.  "For  'tis  best  to  get  your 
family  over  and  done  with,  as  soon  as  you  can,  so  as 
to  be  all  the  earlier  out  of  the  fag  o't." 

"And  what  may  be  this  glad  cause?"  asked  the  stranger. 

"A  birth  and  christening,"  said  the  shepherd. 

The  stranger  hoped  his  host  might  not  be  made  unhappy 
either  by  too  many  or  too  few  of  such  episodes,  and  be- 
ing invited  by  a  gesture  to  a  pull  at  the  mug,  he  readily 
acquiesced.  His  manner,  which  before  entering  had  been 
so  dubious,  was  now  altogether  that  of  a  careless  and 
candid  man. 

"Late  to  be  traipsing  athwart  this  coomb — hey?"  said 
the  engaged  man  of  fifty. 

"Late  it  is,  master,  as  you  say. — I'll  take  a  seat  in  the 
chimney-corner,  if  you  have  nothing  to  urge  against  it, 
ma'am;  for  I  am  a  little  moist  on  the  side  that  was  next 
the  rain." 

Mrs.  Shepherd  Fennel  assented,  and  made  room  for  the 
self-invited  comer,  who,  having  got  completely  inside  the 
chimney-corner,  stretched  out  his  legs  and  his  arms  with 
the  expansiveness  of  a  person  quite  at  home. 

"Yes,  I  am  rather  thin  in  the  vamp/'  he  said  freely,  see- 
ing that  the  eyes  of  the  shepherd's  wife  fell  upon  his  boots, 
"and  I  am  not  well  fitted,  either.  I  have  had  some  rough 
times  lately,  and  have  been  forced  to  pick  up  what  I  can 
get  in  the  way  of  wearing,  but  I  must  find  a  suit  better 
fit  for  working-days  when  I  reach  home." 

"One  of  hereabouts?"  she  enquired. 

"Not  quite  that — further  up  the  country." 

"I  thought  so.  And  so  am  I;  and  by  your  tongue,  you 
come  from  my  neighbourhood." 

"But  you  would  hardly  have  heard  of  me,"  he  said 
quickly.  "My  time  would  be  long  before  yours,  ma'am,  you 
see." 

This  testimony  to  the  youthfulness  of  his  hostess  had  the 
effect  of  stopping  her  cross-examination. 

"There  is  only  one  thing  more  wanted  to  make  me 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS  g 

happy,"  continued  the  newcomer.  "And  that  is  a  little 
baccy,  which  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  am  out  of." 

"I'll  fill  your  pipe,"  said  the  shepherd. 

"I  must  ask  you  to  lend  me  a  pipe  likewise." 

"A  smoker,  and  no  pipe  about  ye?" 

"I  have  dropped  it  somewhere  on  the  road." 

The  shepherd  filled  and  handed  him  a  new  clay  pipe, 
saying,  as  he  did  so,  "Hand  me  your  baccy-box. — I'll  fill 
that  too,  now  I  am  about  it." 

The  man  went  through  the  movement  of  searching  his 
pockets. 

"Lost  that  too?"  said  his  entertainer,  with  some  sur- 
prise. 

"I  am  afraid  so,"  said  the  man  with  some  confusion. 
"Give  it  to  me  in  a  screw  of  paper."  Lighting  his  pipe  at 
the  candle  with  a  suction  that  drew  the  whole  flame  into 
the  bowl,  he  resettled  himself  in  the  corner  and  bent  his 
looks  upon  the  faint  steam  from  his  damp  legs,  as  if  he 
wished  to  say  no  more. 

Meanwhile  the  general  body  of  guests  had  been  taking 
little  notice  of  this  visitor  by  reason  of  an  absorbing  dis- 
cussion in  which  they  were  engaged  with  the  band  about 
a  tune  for  the  next  dance.  The  matter  being  settled,  they 
were  about  to  stand  up,  when  an  interruption  c^me  in  the 
shape  of  another  knock  at  the  door. 

At  sound  of  the  same  the  man  in  the  chimney-corner 
took  up  the  poker  and  began  stirring  the  fire  as  if  doing 
it  thoroughly  were  the  one  aim  of  his  existence;  and  a 
second  time  the  shepherd  said,  "Walk  in!"  In  a  moment 
another  man  stood  upon  the  straw-woven  door-mat.  He 
too  was  a  stranger. 

This  individual  was  one  of  a  type  radically  different 
from  the  first.  There  was  more  of  the  commonplace  in 
his  manner,  and  a  certain  jovial  cosmopolitanism  sat  upon 
his  features.  He  was  several  years  older  than  the  first 
arrival,  his  hair  being  slightly  frosted,  his  eyebrows  bristly, 
and  his  whiskers  cut  back  from  his  cheeks.  His  face  was 
rather  full  and  flabby,  and  yet  it  was  not  altogether  a  face 
without  power.  A  few  grog-blossoms  marked  the  neigh- 


10    THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

bourhood  of  his  nose.  He  flung  back  his  long  drab  great- 
coat, revealing  that  beneath  it  he  wore  a  suit  of  cinder- 
grey  shade  throughout,  large  heavy  seals,  of  some  metal 
or  other  that  would  take  a  polish,  dangling  from  his  fob 
as  his  only  personal  ornament.  Shaking  the  water-drops 
from  his  low-crowned  glazed  hat,  he  said,  "I  must  ask  for 
a  few  minutes'  shelter,  comrades,  or  I  shall  be  wetted  to 
my  skin  before  I  get  to  Casterb ridge." 

"Make  yerself  at  home,  master,"  said  the  shepherd,  per- 
haps a  trifle  less  heartily  than  on  the  first  occasion.  Not 
that  Fennel  had  the  least  tinge  of  niggardliness  in  his  com- 
position; but  the  room  was  far  from  large,  spare  chairs 
were  not  numerous,  and  damp  companions  were  not  alto- 
gether comfortable  at  close  quarters  for  the  women  and 
girls  in  their  bright-coloured  gowns. 

However,  the  second  comer,  after  taking  off  his  great- 
coat, and  hanging  his  hat  on  a  nail  in  one  of  the  ceiling- 
beams  as  if  he  had  been  specially  invited  to  put  it  there, 
advanced  and  sat  down  at  the  table.  This  had  been  pushed 
so  closely  into  the  chimney-corner,  to  give  all  available 
room  to  the  dancers,  that  its  inner  edge  grazed  the  elbow 
of  the  man  who  had  ensconced  himself  by  the  fire;  and 
thus  the  two  strangers  were  brought  into  close  compan- 
ionship. They  nodded  to  each  other  by  way  of  breaking 
the  ice  of  unacquaintance,  and  the  first  stranger  handed 
his  neighbour  the  large  mug — a  huge  vessel  of  bro\vn  ware, 
having  its  upper  edge  worn  away  like  a  threshold  by  the 
rub  of  whole  genealogies  of  thirsty  lips  that  had  gone  the 
way  of  all  flesh,  and  bearing  the  following  inscription  burnt 
upon  its  rotund  side  in  yellow  letters: 

"THERE  is  No  FUN 
UNTILL  i  CUM." 

The  other  man,  nothing  loth,  raised  the  mug  to  his  lips,  and 
drank  on,  and  on,  and  on — till  a  curious  blueness  over- 
spead  the  countenance  of  the  shepherd's  wife,  who  had  re- 
garded with  no  little  surprise  the  first  stranger's  free  offer 
to  the  second  of  what  did  not  belong  to  him  to  dispense. 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS  n 

"I  knew  it!"  said  the  toper  to  the  shepherd  with  much 
satisfaction.  "When  I  walked  up  your  garden  afore  com- 
ing in,  and  saw  the  hives  all  of  a  row,  I  said  to  myself, 
'Where  there's  bees  there's  honey,  and  where  there's  honey 
there's  mead.'  But  mead  of  such  a  truly  comfortable  sort 
as  this  I  really  didn't  expect  to  meet  in  my  older  days." 
He  took  yet  another  pull  at  the  mug,  till  it  assumed  an 
ominous  horizontality. 

"Glad  you  enjoy  it!"  said  the  shepherd  warmly. 

"It  is  goodish  mead,"  assented  Mrs.  Fennel  with  an 
absence  of  enthusiasm,  which  seemed  to  say  that  it  was 
possible  to  buy  praise  for  one's  cellar  at  too  heavy  a  price. 
"It  is  trouble  enough  to  make — and  really  I  hardly  think 
we  shall  make  any  more.  For  honey  sells  well,  arid  we 
can  make  shift  with  a  drop  o'  small  mead  and  metheglin 
for  common  use  from  the  comb-washings." 

"Oh,  but  you'll  never  have  the  heart!"  reproachfully 
cried  the  stranger  in  cinder-grey,  after  taking  up  the  mug 
a  third  time  and  setting  it  down  empty.  "I  love  mead,  when 
'tis  old  like  this,  as  I  love  to  go  to  church  o'  Sundays,  or 
to  relieve  the  needy  any  day  of  the  week." 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!"  said  the  man  in  the  chimney-corner,  who, 
in  spite  of  the  tactiturnity  induced  by  the  pipe  of  tobacco, 
could  not  or  would  not  refrain  from  this  slight  testimony 
to  his  comrade's  humour. 

Now,  the  old  mead  of  those  days,  brewed  of  the  purest 
first-year,  or  maiden  honey,  four  pounds  to  the  gallon — 
with  its  due  complement  of  whites  of  eggs,  cinnamon,  ginger, 
cloves,  mace,  rosemary,  yeast  and  processes  of  working, 
bottling,  and  cellaring — tasted  remarkably  strong;  but  it 
did  not  taste  so  strong  as  it  actually  was.  Hence,  pres- 
ently, the  stranger  in  cinder-grey  at  the  table,  moved  by 
its  creeping  influence,  unbuttoned  his  waistcoat,  threw  him- 
self back  in  his  chair,  spread  his  legs,  and  made  his  pres- 
ence felt  in  various  ways. 

"Well,  well,  as  I  say,"  he  resumed,  "I  am  going  to  Cas- 
terbridge,  and  to  Casterbridge  I  must  go.  I  should  have 
been  almost  there  by  this  time;  but  the  storm  drove  me 
into  ye;  and  I'm  not  sorry  for  it." 


12     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

"You  don't  live  in  Casterbridge?"  said  the  shepherd. 

"Not  as  yet;  though  I  shortly  mean  to  move  there." 

"Going  to  set  up  in  trade,  perhaps?" 

"No,  no,"  said  the  shepherd's  wife.  "It  is  easy  to  see 
that  the  gentleman  is  rich,  and  don't  want  to  work  at  any- 
thing." 

The  cinder-grey  stranger  paused,  as  if  to  consider  whether 
he  would  accept  that  definition  of  himself.  He  presently 
rejected  it  by  answering,  "Rich  is  not  quite  the  word  for 
me,  dame.  I  do  work,  and  I  must  work.  And  even  if  I 
only  get  to  Casterbridge  by  midnight  I  must  begin  work 
there  at  eight  to-morrow  morning.  Yes,  het  or  wet,  blow 
or  snow,  famine  or  sword,  my  day's  work  to-morrow  must 
be  done." 

"Poor  man!  Then,  in  spite  o'  seeming,  you  be  worse 
off  than  we?"  replied  the  shepherd's  wife. 

"  'Tis  the  nature  of  my  trade,  men  and  maidens.  'Tis 
the  nature  of  my  trade  more  than  my  poverty.  .  .  .  But 
really  and  truly  I  must  up  and  off,  or  I  shan't  get  a  lodging 
in  the  town."  However,  the  speaker  did  not  move,  and 
directly  added,  "There's  time  for  one  more  draught  of 
friendship  before  I  go;  and  I'd  perform  it  at  once  if  the 
mug  were  not  dry." 

"Here's  a  mug  o'  small,"  said  Mrs.  Fennel.  "Small,  we 
call  it,  though  to  be  sure  'tis  only  the  first  wash  o'  the 
combs." 

"No,"  said  the  stranger  disdainfully.  "I  won't  spoil  your 
first  kindness  by  partaking  o'  your  second." 

"Certainly  not,"  broke  in  Fennel.  "We  don't  increase 
and  multiply  every  day,  and  I'll  fill  the  mug  again."  He 
went  away  to  the  dark  place  under  the  stairs  where  the 
barrel  stood.  The  shepherdess  followed  him. 

"Why  should  you  do  this?"  she  said  reproachfully,  as 
soon  as  they  were  alone.  "He's  emptied  it  once,  though  it 
held  enough  for  ten  people;  and  now  he's  not  contented 
wi'  the  small,  but  must  needs  call  for  more  o'  the  strong! 
And  a  stranger  unbeknown  to  any  of  us.  For  my  part,  I 
don't  like  the  look  o'  the  man  at  all." 

"But  he's  in  the  house,  my  honey,  and  'tis  a  wet  night, 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS  13 

and  a  christening.  Daze  it,  what's  a  cup  of  mead  more  or 
less?  there'll  be  plenty  more  next  bee-burning." 

"Very  well — this  time,  then,"  she  answered,  looking  wist- 
fully at  the  barrel.  "But  what  is  the  man's  calling,  and 
where  is  he  one  of,  that  he  should  come  in  and  join  us  like 
this?" 

"I  don't  know.    I'll  ask  him  again." 

The  catastrophe  of  having  the  mug  drained  dry  at  one 
pull  by  the  stranger  in  cinder-grey  was  effectually  guarded 
against  this  time  by  Mcs.  Fennel.  She  poured  out  his  al- 
lowance in  a  small  cup,  keeping  the  large  one  at  a  discreet 
distance  from  him.  When  he  had  tossed  off  his  portion  the 
shepherd  renewed  his  inquiry  about  the  stranger's  occu- 
pation. 

The  latter  did  not  immediately  reply,  and  the  man  in 
the  chimney-corner,  with  sudden  demonstrativeness,  said, 
"Anybody  may  know  my  trade — I'm  a  wheelwright." 

"A  very  good  trade  for  these  parts,"  said  the  shepherd. 

"And  anybody  may  know  mine — if  they've  the  sense  to 
find  it  out,"  said  the  stranger  in  cinder-grey. 

"You  may  generally  tell  what  a  man  is  by  his  claws," 
observed  the  hedge-carpenter,  looking  at  his  hands.  "My 
fingers  be  as  full  of  thorns  as  an  old  pincushion  is  of 
pins." 

The  hands  of  the  man  in  the  chimney-corner  instinctively 
sought  the  shade,  and  he  gazed  into  the  fire  as  he  resumed 
his  pipe.  The  man  at  the  table  took  up  the  hedge-carpen- 
ter's remark,  and  added  smartly,  "True;  but  the  oddity  of 
my  trade  is  that,  instead  of  setting  a  mark  upon  me,  it  sets 
a  mark  upon  my  customers." 

No  observation  being  offered  by  anybody  in  elucidation 
of  this  enigma,  the  shepherd's  wife  once  more  called  for 
a  song.  The  same  obstacles  presented  themselves  as  at 
the  former  time — one  had  no  voice,  another  had  forgotten 
the  first  verse.  The  stranger  at  the  table,  whose  soul  had 
now  risen  to  a  good  working  temperature,  relieved  the  dif- 
ficulty by  exclaiming  that,  to  start  the  company,  he  would 
sing  himself.  Thrusting  one  thumb  into  the  arm-hole  of 
his  waistcoat,  he  waved  the  other  hand  in  the  air,  and, 


14     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

with  an  extemporising  gaze  at  the  shining  sheep-crooks 
above  the  mantelpiece,  began:— 

Oh  my  trade  it  is  the  rarest  one, 

Simple  shepherds  all — 
My  trade  is  a  sight  to  see; 

For  my  customers  I  tie,  and  take  them  up  on  high, 
And  waft  'em  to  a  far  countree. 

The  room  was  silent  when  he  had  finished  the  verse — with 
one  exception,  that  of  the  man  in  the  chimney-corner,  who, 
at  the  singer's  word,  "Chorus!"  joined  him  in  a  deep  bass 
voice  of  musical  relish — 

And  waft  'em   to  a  far  countree. 

Oliver  Giles,  John  Pitcher  the  dairyman,  the  parish-clerk, 
the  engaged  man  of  fifty,  the  row  of  young  women  against 
the  wall,  seemed  lost  in  thought  not  of  the  gayest  kind. 
The  shepherd  looked  meditatively  on  the  ground,  the  shep- 
herdess gazed  keenly  at  the  singer,  and  with  some  suspi- 
cion; she  was  doubting  whether  this  stranger  were  merely 
singing  an  old  song  from  recollection,  or  was  composing 
one  there  and  then  for  the  occasion.  All  were  as  per- 
plexed at  the  obscure  revelation  as  the  guests  at  Belshaz- 
zar's  Feast,  except  the  man  in  the  chimney-corner,  who 
quietly  said,  "Second  verse,  stranger,"  and  smoked  on. 

The  singer  thoroughly  moistened  himself  from  his  lips 
inwards,  and  went  on  with  the  next  stanza  as  requested: 

My  tools  are  but  common  ones, 

Simple  shepherds  all, 
My  tools  are  no  sight  to  see: 
A  little  hempen  string,  and  a  post  whereon  to  swing, 
Are  implements  enough  for  me. 

Shepherd  Fennel  glanced  round.  There  was  no  longer  any 
doubt  that  the  stranger  was  answering  his  question  rhyth- 
mically. The  guests  one  and  all  started  back  with  sup- 
pressed exclamations.  The  young  woman  engaged  to  the 
man  of  fifty  fainted  half-way,  and  would  have  proceeded, 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS  15 

but  finding  him  waiting  in  alacrity  for  catching  her  she 
sat  down  trembling. 

"Oh,  he's  the 1"  whispered  the  people  in  the  back- 
ground, mentioning  the  name  of  an  ominous  public  officer. 
"He's  come  to  do  it.  Tis  to  be  at  Casterbridge  gaol  to- 
morrow— the  man  for  sheep-stealing — the  poor  clock-maker 
we  heard  of,  who  used  to  live  away  at  Anglebury  and  had 
no  work  to  do — Timothy  Sommers,  whose  family  were 
a-starving,  and  so  he  went  out  of  Anglebury  by  the  high- 
road, and  took  a  sheep  in  open  daylight,  defying  the  farm- 
er and  the  farmer's  wife  and  the  farmer's  man,  and 
every  man  jack  among  'em.  He"  (and  they  nodded  to- 
wards the  stranger  of  the  terrible  trade)  "is  come  from 
up  the  country  to  do  it  because  there's  not  enough  to  do 
in  his  own  county-town,  and  he's  got  the  place  here  now 
our  own  county  man's  dead;  he's  going  to  live  in  the  same 
cottage  under  the  prison  wall." 

The  stranger  in  cinder-grey  took  no  notice  of  this  whis- 
pered string  of  observations,  but  again  wetted  his  lips. 
Seeing  that  his  friend  in  the  chimney-corner  was  the  only 
one  who  reciprocated  his  joviality  in  any  way,  he  held  out 
his  cup  towards  that  appreciative  comrade,  who  also  held 
out  his  own.  They  clinked  together,  the  eyes  of  the  rest 
of  the  room  hanging  upon  the  singer's  actions.  He  parted 
his  lips  for  the  third  verse;  but  at  that  moment  another 
knock  was  audible  upon  the  door.  This  time  the  knock 
was  faint  and  hesitating. 

The  company  seemed  scared;  the  shepherd  looked  with 
consternation  towards  the  entrance,  and  it  was  with  some 
effort  that  he  resisted  fr's  alarmed  wife's  denrecatorv  glance, 
and  uttered  for  the  third  time  the  welcoming  words  "Walk 
in!" 

The  door  was  gently  onened,  and  another  man  stood 
upon  the  mat.  He,  like  those  who  had  preceded  him,  was 
a  stranger.  This  time  it  was  a  short,  small  personage,  of 
fair  complexion,  and  dressed  in  a  decent  suit  of  dark 
clothes. 

"Can  you  tell  me  the  way  to ?"  he  began;  when, 

gazing  around  the  room  to  observe  the  nature  of  the  com- 


1 6     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

pany  amongst  whom  he  had  fallen,  his  eyes  lighted  on  the 
stranger  in  cinder-grey.  It  was  just  at  the  instant  when 
the  latter,  who  had  thrown  his  mind  into  his  song  with 
such  a  will  that  he  scarcely  heeded  the  interruption,  si- 
lenced all  whispers  and  inquiries  by  bursting  into  his  third 
verse: 

To-morrow  is  my  working  day, 

Simple  shepherds  all- 
To-morrow  is  a  working  day  for  me: 

For  the  farmer's  sheep  is  slain,  and  the  lad  who  did  it  ta'en, 
And  on  his  soul  may  God  ha'  merc-y! 

The  stranger  in  the  chimney-corner,  waving  cups  with  the 
singer  so  heartily  that  his  mead  splashed  over  on  the  hearth, 
repeated  in  his  bass  voice  as  before: 

And  on  his  soul  may  God  ha'  merc-y! 

All  this  time  the  third  stranger  had  been  standing  in  the 
doorway.  Finding  now  that  he  did  not  come  forward  or 
go  on  speaking,  the  guests  particularly  regarded  him.  They 
noticed  to  their  surprise  that  he  stood  before  them  the 
picture  of  abject  terror — his  knees  trembling,  his  hand 
shaking  so  violently  that  the  door-latch  by  which  he  sup- 
ported himself  rattled  audibly;  his  white  lips  were  parted, 
and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  merry  officer  of  justice  in  the 
middle  of  the  room.  A  moment  more  and  he  had  turned, 
closed  the  door,  and  fled. 

"What  a  man  can  it  be?"  said  the  shepherd. 

The  rest,  between  the  awfulness  of  their  late  discovery 
and  the  odd  conduct  of  this  third  visitor,  looked  as  if 
they  knew  not  what  to  think,  and  said  nothing.  In- 
stinctively they  withdrew  further  and  further  from  the 
grim  gentleman  in  their  midst,  whom  some  of  them  seemed 
to  take  for  the  Prince  of  Darkness  himself,  till  they  formed 
a  remote  circle,  an  empty  space  of  floor  being  left  between 
them  and  him 

cfocnlus,  cujus  centrum  didbolus. 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS  17 

The  room  was  so  silent — though  there  were  more  than 
twenty  people  in  it — that  nothing  could  be  heard  but  the 
patter  of  the  rain  against  the  window-shutters,  accompanied 
by  the  occasional  hiss  of  a  stray  drop  that  fell  down  the 
chimney  into  the  fire,  and  the  steady  puffing  of  the  man 
in  the  corner,  who  had  now  resumed  his  pipe  of  long  clay. 

The  stillness  was  unexpectedly  broken.  The  distant 
sound  of  a  gun  reverberated  through  the  air — apparently 
from  the  direction  of  the  county- town. 

"Be  jiggered!"  cried  the  stranger  who  had  sung  the  song, 
jumping  up. 

"What  does  that  mean?"  asked  several. 

"A  prisoner  escaped  from  the  gaol — that's  what  it  means." 

All  listened.  The  sound  was  repeated,  and  none  of  them 
spoke  but  the  man  in  the  chimney-corner,  who  said  quietly, 
"I've  often  'been  told  that  in  this  county  they  fire  a  gun  at 
such  times;  but  I  never  heard  it  till  now." 

"I  wonder  if  it  is  my  man?"  murmured  the  personage 
in  cinder-grey. 

"Surely  it  is!"  said  the  shepherd  involuntarily.  "And 
surely  we've  seen  him!  That  little  man  who  looked  in  at 
the  door  by  now,  and  quivered  like  a  leaf  when  he  seed  ye 
and  heard  your  song ! " 

"His  teeth  chattered,  and  the  breath  went  out  of  his 
body,"  said  the  dairyman. 

"And  his  heart  seemed  to  sink  within  him  like  a  stone," 
said  Oliver  Giles. 

"And  he  bolted  as  if  he'd  been  shot  at,"  said  the  hedge- 
carpenter. 

"True — his  teeth  chattered,  and  his  heart  seemed  to 
sink ;  and  he  bolted  as  if  he'd  been  shot  at,"  slowly  summed 
up  the  man  in  the  chimney-corner. 

"I  didn't  notice  it,"  remarked  the  grim  songster. 

"We  were  all  a-wondering  what  made  him  run  off  in 
such  a  fright,"  faltered  one  of  the  women  against  the  wall, 
"and  now  'tis  explained." 

The  firing  of  the  alarm-gun  went  on  at  intervals,  low  and 
sullenly,  and  their  suspicions  became  a  certainty.  The 
sinister  gentleman  in  cinder-grey  roused  himself.  "Is  there 


18     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

a  constable  here?"  he  asked  in  thick  tones.  "If  so,  let 
him  step  forward." 

The  engaged  man  of  fifty  stepped  quavering  out  of  the 
corner,  his  betrothed  beginning  to  sob  on  the  back  of  the 
chair. 

"You  are  a  sworn  constable?" 

"I  be,  sir." 

"Then  pursue  the  criminal  at  once,  with  assistance,  and 
bring  him  back  here.  He  can't  have  gone  far." 

"I  will,  sir,  I  will — when  I've  got  my  staff.  I'll  go  home 
and  get  it,  and  come  sharp  here,  and  start  in  a  body." 

"Staff! — never  mind  your  staff;  the  man'll  be  gone!" 

"But  I  can't  do  nothing  without  my  staff — can  I,  Wil- 
liam, and  John,  and  Charles  Jake?  No;  for  there's  the 
king's  royal  crown  a  painted  on  en  in  yaller  and  gold,  and 
the  lion  and  the  unicorn,  so  as  when  I  raise  en  up  and  hit 
my  prisoner,  'tis  made  a  lawful  blow  thereby.  I  wouldn't 
'tempt  to  take  up  a  man  without  my  staff — no,  not  I.  If 
I  hadn't  the  law  to  gie  me  courage,  why,  instead  o'  my 
taking  up  him  he  might  take  up  me!" 

"Now,  I'm  a  king's  man  myself,  and  can  give  you  au- 
thority enough  for  this,"  said  the  formidable  person  in 
cinder-grey.  "Now,  then,  all  of  ye,  be  ready.  Have  ye 
any  lanterns?" 

"Yes — have  ye  any  lanterns? — I  demand  it,"  said  the 
constable. 

"And  the  rest  of  you  able-bodied 

"Able-bodied  men — yes — the  rest  of  ye,"  said  the  con- 
stable. 

"Have  you  some  good  stout  staves  and  pitchforks " 

"Staves  and  pitchforks — in  the  name  o'  the  law.  And 
take  'em  in  yer  hands  and  go  in  quest,  and  do  as  we  in 
authority  tell  ye." 

Thus  aroused,  the  men  prepared  to  give  chase.  The 
evidence  was,  indeed,  though  circumstantial,  so  convinc- 
ing, that  but  little  argument  was  needed  to  show  the  shep- 
herd's guests  that  after  what  they  had  seen  it  would  look 
very  much  like  connivance  if  they  did  not  instantly  pursue 
the  unhappy  third  stranger,  who  could  not  as  yet  have 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS  19 

gone  more  than  a  few  hundred  yards  over  such  uneven 
country. 

A  shepherd  is  always  well  provided  with  lanterns;  and, 
lighting  these  hastily,  and  with  hurdle-staves  in  their  hands, 
they  poured  out  of  the  door,  taking  a  direction  along  the 
crest  of  the  hill,  away  from  the  town,  the  rain  having  for- 
tunately a  little  abated. 

Disturbed  by  the  noise,  or  possibly  by  unoleasant  dreams 
of  her  baptism,  the  child  who  had  been  christened  began 
to  cry  heartbrokenly  in  the  room  overhead.  These  notes 
of  grief  came  down  through  the  chinks  of  the  floor  to  the 
ears  of  the  women  below,  who  jumped  up  one  by  one, 
and  seemed  glad  of  the  excuse  to  ascend  and  comfort  the 
baby,  for  the  incidents  of  the  last  half  hour  greatly  op- 
pressed them.  Thus  in  the  space  of  two  or  three  minutes 
the  room  on  the  ground  floor  was  deserted  quite. 

But  it  was  not  for  long.  Hardly  had  the  sound  of  foot- 
steps died  away  when  a  man  returned  round  the  corner  of 
the  house  from  the  direction  the  pursuers  had  taken.  Peep- 
ing in  at  the  door,  and  seeing  nobody  there,  he  entered 
leisurely.  It  was  the  stranger  of  the  chimney-corner,  who 
had  gone  out  with  the  rest.  The  motive  of  his  return  was 
shown  by  his  helping  himself  to  a  cut  piece  of  skimmer- 
cake  that  lay  on  a  ledge  beside  where  he  had  sat,  and 
which  he  had  apoarently  forgotten  to  take  witfc  him.  He 
also  poured  out  half  a  cup  more  mead  from  the  quantity 
that  remained,  ravenously  eating  and  drinking  these  as  he 
stood.  He  had  not  finished  when  another  figure  came  in 
just  as  quietly — the  stranger  in  cinder-grey. 

"Oh— you  here?"  said  the  latter  smiling.  "  I  thought 
you  had  pone  to  heln  in  the  capture."  And  tlrs  sneaker 
also  revealed  the  object  of  his  return  by  looking  solicit- 
ously round  for  the  fascinating  mug  of  old  mead. 

"And  I  thought  you  had  gone,"  said  the  other,  continu- 
ing his  skimmer-cake  with  some  effort. 

"Well,  on  second  thoughts,  I  felt  there  were  enough 
without  me,"  said  the  first  confidentially,  "and  such  a 
night  as  it  is,  too.  Besides,  'tis  the  business  o'  the  Gov- 
ernment to  take  care  of  its  criminals — not  mine." 


20    THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

"True;  so  it  is.  And  I  felt  as  you  did,  that  there  were 
enough  without  me." 

"I  aon't  want  to  break  my  limbs  running  over  the  humps 
and  hollows  of  this  wild  country." 

"Nor  I  neither,  between  you  and  me." 

"These  shepherd-people  are  used  to  it — simple-minded 
souls,  you  know,  stirred  up  to  anything  in  a  moment. 
They'll  have  him  ready  for  me  before  the  morning,  and  no 
trouble  to  me  at  all." 

"They'll  have  him,  and  we  shall  have  saved  ourselves 
all  labour  in  the  matter." 

"True,  true.  Well,  my  way  is  to  Casterbridge;  and  'tis 
as  much  as  my  legs  will  do  to  take  me  that  far.  Going 
the  same  way?" 

"No,  I  am  sorry  to  say.  I  have  to  get  home  over  there" 
(he  nodded  indefinitely  to  the  right),  "and  I  feel  as  you 
do,  that  it  is  quite  enough  for  my  legs  to  do  before  bed- 
time." 

The  other  had  by  this  time  finished  the  mead  in  the 
mug,  after  which,  shaking  hands  at  the  door,  and  wishing 
each  other  well,  they  went  their  several  ways. 

In  the  meantime  the  company  of  pursuers  had  reached 
the  end  of  the  hog's-back  elevation  which  dominated  this 
part  of  the  coomb.  They  had  decided  on  no  particular 
plan  of  action;  and,  finding  that  the  man  of  the  baleful 
trade  was  no  longer  in  their  company,  they  seemed  quite 
unable  to  form  any  such  plan  now.  They  descended  in  all 
directions  down  the  hill,  and  straightway  several  of  the 
party  fell  into  the  snare  set  by  Nature  for  all  misguided 
midnight  ramblers  over  the  lower  cretaceous  formation. 
The  "lynchets,"  or  flint  slopes,  which  belted  the  escarp- 
ments at  intervals  of  a  dozen  yards,  took  the  less  cautious 
ones  unawares,  and  losing  their  footing  on  the  rubbly  steep 
they  slid  sharply  downwards,  the  lanterns  rolling  from  their 
hands  to  the  bottom,  and  there  lying  on  their  sides  till  the 
horn  was  scorched  through. 

When  they  had  again  gathered  themselves  together,  the 
shepherd,  as  the  man  who  knew  the  country  best,  took 
the  lead,  and  guided  them  round  these  treacherous  inclines. 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS  21 

The  lanterns,  which  seemed  rather  to  dazzle  their  eyes  and 
warn  the  fugitive  than  to  assist  them  in  the  exploration, 
were  extinguished,  due  silence  was  observed;  and  in  this 
more  rational  order  they  plunged  into  the  vale.  It  was 
a  grassy,  briary,  moist  channel,  affording  some  shelter  to 
any  person  who  had  sought  it;  but  the  party  perambulated 
it  in  vain,  and  ascended  on  the  other  side.  Here  they  wan- 
dered apart,  and  after  an  interval  closed  together  again  to 
report  progress.  At  the  second  time  of  closing  in  they 
found  themselves  near  a  lonely  oak,  the  single  tree  on  this 
part  of  the  upland,  probably  sown  there  by  a  passing  bird 
some  hundred  years  before.  And  there,  standing  a  little 
to  one  side  of  the  trunk,  as  motionless  as  the  trunk  itself, 
appeared  the  man  they  were  in  quest  of,  his  outline  being 
well  defined  against  the  sky  beyond.  The  band  noiselessly 
drew  up  and  faced  him. 

"Your  money  or  your  life!"  said  the  constable  sternly  to 
the  still  figure. 

"No,  no,"  whispered  John  Pitcher.  "  'Tisn't  our  side 
ought  to  say  that.  That's  the  doctrine  of  vagabonds  like 
him,  and  we  be  on  the  side  of  the  law." 

"Well,  well,"  replied  the  constable  impatiently;  "I  must 
say  something,  mustn't  I?  And  if  you  had  all  o'  the  weight 
o'  this  undertaking  upon  your  mind,  perhaps  you'd  say 
the  wrong  thing,  too. — Prisoner  at  the  bar,  surrender,  in 
the  name  of  the  Fath the  Crown  I  mane!" 

The  man  under  the  tree  seemed  now  to  notice  them  for 
the  first  time,  and,  giving  them  no  opportunity  whatever 
for  exhibiting  their  courage,  he  strolled  slowly  towards 
them.  He  was,  indeed,  the  little  man,  the  third  stranger; 
but  his  trepidation  had  in  a  great  measure  gone. 

"Well,  travellers,"  he  said,  "did  I  hear  ye  speak  to  me?" 

"You  did:  you've  got  to  come  and  be  our  prisoner  at 
once,"  said  the  constable.  "We  arrest  ye  on  the  charge 
of  not  biding  in  Casterbridge  gaol  in  a  decent  proper  man- 
ner to  be  hung  to-morrow  morning.  Neighbours,  do  your 
duty,  and  seize  the  culpet!" 

On  hearing  the  charge,  the  man  seemed  enlightened,  and, 
saying  not  another  word,  resigned  himself  with  preternat- 


22     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

ural  civility  to  the  search-party,  who,  with  their  staves  in 
their  hands,  surrounded  him  on  all  sides,  and  marched 
him  back  towards  the  shepherd's  cottage. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  by  the  time  they  arrived.  The 
light  shining  from  the  open  door,  a  sound  of  men's  voices 
within,  proclaimed  to  them  as  they  approached  the  house 
that  some  new  events  had  arisen  in  their  absence.  On  en^ 
tering  they  disscovered  the  shepherd's  living-room  to  be 
invaded  by  two  officers  from  Casterbridge  gaol,  and  a 
well-known  magistrate  who  lived  at  the  nearest  country 
seat,  intelligence  of  the  escape  having  become  generally 
circulated. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  constable,  "I  have  brought  back 
your  man — not  without  risk  and  danger;  but  every  one 
must  do  his  duty.  He  is  inside  this  circle  of  able-bodied 
persons,  who  have  lent  me  useful  aid  considering  their  ig- 
norance of  Crown  work.  Men,  bring  forward  your  pris- 
oner." And  the  third  stranger  was  led  to  the  light. 

"Who  is  this?"  said  one  of  the  officials. 

"The  man,"  said  the  constable. 

"Certainly  not,"  said  the  other  turnkey;  and  the  first 
corroborated  his  statement. 

"But  how  can  it  be  otherwise?"  asked  the  constable.  "Or 
why  was  he  so  terrified  at  sight  o'  the  singing  instrument 
of  the  law?"  Here  he  related  the  strange  behaviour  of 
the  third  stranger  on  entering  the  house. 

"Can't  understand  it,"  said  the  officer  coolly.  "All  I 
know  is  that  it  is  not  the  condemned  man.  He's  quite  a 
different  character  from  this  one;  a  gauntish  fellow,  with 
dark  hair  and  eyes,  rather  good-looking,  and  with  a  mu- 
sical bass  voice  that  if  you  heard  it  once  you'd  never  mis- 
take as  long  as  you  lived." 

"Why,  souls — 'twas  the  man  in  the  chimney-corner!" 

"Hey — what?"  said  the  magistrate,  coming  forward  af- 
ter inquiring  particulars  from  the  shepherd  in  the  back- 
ground. "Haven't  you  got  the  man  after  all?" 

"Well,  sir,"  said  the  constable,  "he's  the  man  we  were 
in  search  of,  that's  true;  and  yet  he's  not  the  man  we  were 
in  search  of.  For  the  man  we  were  in  search  of  was  not 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS  33 

the  man  we  wanted,  sir,  if  you  understand  my  everyday 
way;  for  'twas  the  man  in  the  chimney-corner." 

"A  pretty  kettle  of  fish  altogether!"  said  the  magistrate. 
"You  had  better  start  for  the  other  man  at  once." 

The  prisoner  now  spoke  for  the  first  time.  The  men- 
tion of  the  man  in  the  chimney-corner  seemed  to  have 
moved  him  as  nothing  else  could  do.  "Sir,"  he  said,  step- 
ping forward  to  the  magistrate,  "take  no  more  trouble  about 
me.  The  time  is  come  when  I  may  as  well  speak.  I  have 
done  nothing;  my  crime  is  that  the  condemned  man  is 
my  brother.  Early  this  afternoon  I  left  home  at  Angle- 
bury  to  tramp  it  all  the  way  to  Casterbridge  gaol  to  bid 
him  farewell.  I  was  benighted,  and  called  here  to  rest  and 
ask  the  way.  When  I  opened  the  door  I  saw  before  me 
the  very  man,  my  brother,  that  I  thought  to  see  in  the  con- 
demned cell  at  Casterbridge.  He  was  in  this  chimney-cor- 
ner; and  jammed  close  to  him,  so  that  he  could  not  have  got 
out  if  he  had  tried,  was  the  executioner  who'd  come  to 
take  his  life,  singing  a  song  about  it  and  not  knowing  that 
it  was  the  victim  who  was  close  by,  joining  in  to  save  ap- 
pearances. My  brother  looked  a  glance  of  agony  at  me, 
and  I  knew  he  meant,  'Don't  reveal  what  you  see;  my  life 
depends  on  it.'  I  was  so  terror-struck  that  I  could  hardly 
stand,  and,  not  knowing  what  I  did,  I  turned  and  hurried 
away." 

The  narrator's  manner  and  tone  had  the  stamp  of  truth, 
and  his  story  made  a  great  impression  on  all  around. 
"And  do  you  know  where  your  brother  is  at  the  present 
time?"  asked  the  magistrate. 

"I  do  not.  I  have  never  seen  him  since  I  closed  this 
door." 

"I  can  testify  to  that,  for  we've  been  between  ye  ever 
since,"  said  the  constable. 

"Where  does  he  think  to  fly  to? — what  is  his  occupa- 
tion?" 

"He's  a  watch-and-clock-maker,  sir." 

<0A  said  'a  was  a  wheelwright — a  wicked  rogue,"  said 
the  constable. 

"The  wheels  o'  clocks  and  watches  he  meant,  no  doubt," 


24     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

said  Shepherd  Fennel.  "I  thought  his  hands  were  palish 
for's  trade." 

"Well,  it  appears  to  me  that  nothing  can  be  gained  by 
retaining  this  poor  man  in  custody,"  said  the  magistrate: 
"your  business  lies  with  the  other,  unquestionably." 

And  so  the  little  man  was  released  off-hand ;  but  he  looked 
nothing  the  less  sad  on  that  account,  it  being  beyond 
the  power  of  magistrate  or  constable  to  raze  out  the  writ- 
ten troubles  in  his  brain,  for  they  concerned  another  whom 
he  regarded  with  more  solicitude  than  himself.  When  this 
was  done,  and  the  man  had  gone  his  way,  the  night  was 
found  to  be  so  far  advanced  that  it  was  deemed  useless 
to  renew  the  search  before  the  next  morning. 

Next  day,  accordingly,  the  quest  for  the  clever  sheep- 
stealer  became  general  and  keen,  to  all  appearance  at 
least.  But  the  intended  punishment  was  cruelly  dispro- 
portioned  to  the  transgression,  and  the  sympathy  of  a 
great  many  country  folk  in  that  district  was  strongly  on 
the  side  of  the  fugitive.  Moreover,  his  marvellous  coolness 
and  daring  under  the  unprecedented  circumstances  of  the 
shepherd's  party  won  their  admiration.  So  that  it  may  be 
questioned  if  all  those  who  ostensibly  made  themselves  so 
busy  in  exploring  woods  and  fields  and  lanes  were  quite  so 
thorough  when  it  came  to  the  private  examination  of  their 
own  lofts  and  outhouses.  Stories  were  afloat  of  a  myste- 
rious figure  being  occasionally  seen  in  some  old  overgrown 
trackway  or  other,  remote  from  turnpike  roads;  but  when 
a  search  was  instituted  in  any  of  these  suspected  quarters 
nobody  was  found.  Thus  the  days  and  weeks  passed  with- 
out tidings. 

In  brief,  the  bass-voiced  man  of  the  chimney-corner  was 
never  recaptured.  Some  said  that  he  went  across  the 
sea;  others  that  he  did  not,  but  buried  himself  in  the 
depths  of  a  populous  city.  At  any  rate,  the  gentleman  in 
cinder-grey  never  did  his  morning's  work  at  Casterbridge, 
nor  met  anywhere  at  all,  for  business  purposes,  the  com- 
rade with  whom  he  had  passed  an  hour  of  relaxation  in  the 
lonely  house  on  the  coomb. 

The  grass  has  long  been  green  on  the  graves  of  Shep- 


THE  THREE  STRANGERS  25 

herd  Fennel  and  his  frugal  wife;  the  guests  who  made  up 
the  christening  party  have  mainly  followed  their  enter- 
tainers to  the  tomb ;  the  baby  in  whose  honour  they  all  had 
met  is  a  matron  in  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf.  But  the  ar- 
rival of  the  three  strangers  at  the  shepherd's  that  night, 
and  the  details  connected  therewith,  is  a  story  as  well 
known  as  ever  in  the  country  about  Higher  Crowstairs. 


A  LODGING  FOR  THE  NIGHT 

BY  ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON 

IT  was  late  in  November,  1456.  The  snow  fell  over 
Paris  with  rigorous,  relentless  persistence;  sometimes 
the  wind  made  a  sally  and  scattered  it  in  flying  vor- 
tices; sometimes  there  was  a  lull,  and  flake  after  flake  de- 
scended out  of  the  black  night  air,  silent,  circuitous,  in- 
terminable. To  poor  people,  looking  up  under  moist  eye 
brows,  it  seemed  a  wonder  where  it  all  came  from.  Master 
Francis  Villon  had  propounded  an  alternative  that  after- 
noon, at  a  tavern  window:  was  it  only  Pagan  Jupiter  pluck- 
ing geese  upon  Olympus?  or  were  the  holy  angels  moulting? 
He  was  only  a  poor  Master  of  Arts,  he  went  on;  and  as 
the  question  somewhat  touched  upon  divinity,  he  durst  not 
venture  to  conclude.  A  silly  old  priest  from  Montargis, 
who  was  among  the  company,  treated  the  young  rascal  to 
a  bottle  of  wine  in  honour  of  the  jest  and  grimaces  with 
which  it  was  accompanied,  and  swore  on  his  own  white 
beard  that  he  had  been  just  such  another  irreverent  dog 
when  he  was  Villon's  age. 

The  air  was  raw  and  pointed,  but  not  far  be^ow  freez- 
ing; and  the  flakes  were  large,  damp,  and  adhesive.  The 
whole  city  was  sheeted  up.  An  army  might  have  marched 
from  end  to  end  and  not  a  footfall  given  the  alarm.  If 
there  were  any  belated  birds  in  heaven,  they  saw  the  island 
like  a  large  white  patch,  and  the  bridges  like  slim  white  spars, 
on  the  black  ground  of  the  river.  High  up  overhead  the 
snow  settled  among  the  tracery  of  the  cathedral  towers. 
Many  a  niche  was  drifted  full;  many  a  statue  wore  a  long 
white  bonnet  on  its  grotesque  or  sainted  head.  The  gar- 
goyles had  been  transformed  into  great  false  noses,  droop- 
ing towards  the  point.  The  crockets  were  like  upright  pil- 

26 


V 

A  LODGING  FOR  THE  NIGHT  27 

lows  swollen  on  one  side.  In  the  intervals  of  the  wind, 
there  was  a  dull  sound  of  dripping  about  the  precincts  of 
the  church. 

The  cemetery  of  St.  John  had  taken  its  own  share  of 
the  snow.  All  the  graves  were  decently  covered;  tall 
white  housetops  stood  around  in  grave  array;  worthy 
burghers  were  long  ago  in  bed,  be-nightcapped  like  their 
domiciles;  there  was  no  light  in  all  the  neighbourhood  but 
a  little  peep  from  a  lamp  that  hung  swinging  in  the  church 
choir,  and  tossed  the  shadows  to  and  fro  in  time  to  its 
oscillations.  The  clock  was  hard  on  ten  when  the  patrol 
went  by  with  halberds  and  a  lantern,  beating  their  hands; 
and  they  saw  nothing  suspicious  about  the  cemetery  of 
St.  John. 

Yet  there  was  a  small  house,  backed  up  against  the 
cemetery  wall,  which  was  still  awake,  and  awake  to  evil 
purpose,  in  that  snoring  district.  There  was  not  much  to 
betray  it  from  without;  only  a  stream  of  warm  vapour 
from  the  chimney-top,  a  patch  where  the  snow  melted  on 
the  roof,  and  a  few  half-obliterated  footprints  at  the  door. 
But  within,  behind  the  shuttered  windows,  Master  Francis 
Villon  the  poet,  and  some  of  the  thievish  crew  with  whom 
he  consorted,  were  keeping  the  night  alive  and  passing 
round  the  bottle. 

A  great  pile  of  living  embers  diffused  a  strong  and  ruddy 
glow  from  the  arched  chimney.  Before  this  straddled  Dom 
Nicolas,  the  Picardy  monk,  with  his  skirts  picked  up  and 
his  fat  legs  bared  to  the  comfortable  warmth.  His  dilated 
shadow  cut  the  room  in  half;  and  the  firelight  only  es- 
caped on  either  side  of  his  broad  person,  and  in  a  little 
pool  between  his  outspread  feet.  His  face  had  the  beery, 
bruised  appearance  of  the  continual  drinker's;  it  was  cov- 
ered with  a  network  of  congested  veins,  purple  in  ordi- 
nary circumstances,  but  now  pale  violet,  for  even  with  his 
back  to  the  fire  the  cold  pinched  him  on  the  other  side. 
His  cowl  had  half  fallen  back,  and  made  a  strange  ex- 
crescence on  either  side  of  his  bull  neck.  So  he  straddled, 
grumbling,  and  cut  the  room  in  half  with  the  shadow  of 
his  portly  frame. 


28    THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

On  the  right,  Villon  and  Guy  Tabary  were  huddled  to- 
gether over  a  scrap  of  parchment;  Villon  making  a  ballade 
which  he  was  to  call  the  "Ballade  of  Roast  Fish,"  and 
Tabary  spluttering  admiration  at  his  shoulder.  The  poet 
was  a  rag  of  a  man,  dark,  little,  and  lean,  with  hollow 
cheeks  and  thin  black  locks.  He  carried  his  four-and-twen- 
ty  years  with  feverish  animation.  Greed  had  made  folds 
about  his  eyes,  evil  smiles  had  puckered  his  mouth.  The 
wolf  and  pig  struggled  together  in  his  face.  It  was  an  elo- 
quent, sharp,  ugly,  earthly  countenance.  His  hands  were 
small  and  prehensile,  with  fingers  knotted  like  a  cord; 
and  they  were  continually  flickering  in  front  of  him  in 
violent  and  expressive  pantomime.  As  for  Tabary,  a  broad, 
complacent,  admiring  imbecility  breathed  from  his  squash 
nose  and  slobbering  lips:  he  had  become  a  thief,  just  as  he 
might  have  become  the  most  decent  of  burgesses,  by  the 
imperious  chance  that  rules  the  lives  of  human  geese  and 
human  donkeys. 

At  the  monk's  other  hand,  Montigny  and  Thevenin 
Pensete  played  a  game  of  chance.  About  the  first  there 
clung  some  flavour  of  good  birth  and  training,  as  about  a 
fallen  angel;  something  long,  lithe,  and  courtly  in  the  per- 
son; something  aquiline  and  darkling  in  the  face.  Theven- 
in, poor  soul,  was  in  great  feather:  he  had  done  a  good 
stroke  of  knavery  that  afternoon  in  the  Faubourg  St. 
Jacques,  and  all  night  he  had  been  gaining  from  Montigny. 
A  flat  smile  illuminated  his  face;  his  bald  head  shone  rosily 
in  a  garland  of  red  curls;  his  little  protuberant  stomach 
shook  with  silent  chucklings  as  he  swept  in  his  gains. 

"Doubles  or  quits?"  said  Thevenin. 

Montigny  nodded  grimly. 

"Some  may  prefer  to  dine  in  state''  wrote  Villon,  "On 
bread  and  cheese  on  silver  plate.  Or,  or — help  me  out, 
Guido!" 

Tabary  giggled. 

"Or  parsley  on  a  golden  dish"  scribbled  the  poet. 

The  wind  was  freshening  without;  it  drove  the  snow 
before  it,  and  sometimes  raised  its  voice  in  a  victorious 
whoop,  and  made  sepulchral  grumblings  in  the  chimney. 


A  LODGING  FOR  THE  NIGHT  29 

The  cold  was  growing  sharper  as  the  night  went  on.  Villon, 
protruding  his  lips,  imitated  the  gust  with  something  be- 
tween a  whistle  and  a  groan.  It  was  an  eerie,  uncomfort- 
able talent  of  the  poet's,  much  detested  by  the  Picardy 
monk. 

"Can't  you  hear  it  rattle  in  the  gibbet?"  said  Villon. 
"They  are  all  dancing  the  devil's  jig  on-  nothing,  up  there. 
You  may  dance,  my  gallants,  you'll  be  none  the  warmer! 
Whew!  what  a  gust!  Down  went  somebody  just  now!  A 
medlar  the  fewer  on  the  three-legged  medlar-tree! — I  say, 
Dom  Nicolas,  it'll  be  cold  to-night  on  the  St.  Denis  Road?" 
he  asked. 

Dom  Nicolas  winked  both  his  big  eyes,  and  seemed  to 
choke  upon  his  Adam's  apple.  Montfaucon,  the  great 
grisly  Paris  gibbet,  stood  hard  by  the  St.  Denis  Road,  and 
the  pleasantry  touched  him  on  the  raw.  As  for  Tabary,  he 
laughed  immoderately  over  the  medlars;  he  had  never 
heard  anything  more  light-hearted;  and  he  held  his 
sides  and  crowed.  Villon  fetched  him  a  fillip  on  the  nose, 
which  turned  his  mirth  into  an  attack  of  coughing. 

"Oh,  stop  that  row,"  said  Villon,  "and  think  of  rhymes 
to  'fish/  " 

"Doubles  or  quits,"  said  Montigny  doggedly. 

"With  all  my  heart,"  quoth  Thevenin. 

"Is  there  any  more  in  that  bottle?"  asked  the  monk. 

"Open  another,"  said  Villon.  "How  do  you  ever  hope  to 
fill  that  big  hogshead,  your  body,  with  little  things  like 
bottles?  And  how  do  you  expect  to  get  to  heaven?  How 
many  angels,  do  you  fancy,  can  be  spared  to  carry  up  a 
single  monk  from  Picardy?  Or  do  you  think  yourself  an- 
other Elias — and  they'll  send  the  coach  for  you?" 

"Hominibus  impossibiie"  replied  the  monk  as  he  filled 
his  glass. 

Tabary  was  in  ecstasies. 

Villon  filliped  his  nose  again, 

"Laugh  at  my  jokes,  if  you  like,"  he  said. 

"It  was  very  good,"  objected  Tabary. 

Villon  made  a  face  at  him.  "Think  of  rhymes  to  'fish/  " 
he  said.  "What  have  you  to  do  with  Latin?  You'll  wish 


30    THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

you  knew  none  of  it  at  the  great  assizes,  when  the  devil 
calls  for  Guido  Tabary,  clericus — the  devil  with  the  hump- 
back and  red-hot  finger-nails.  Talking  of  the  devil,"  he 
added  in  a  whisper,  "look  at  Montignyl" 
All  three  peered  covertly  at  the  gamester.  He  did  not 
seem  to  be  enjoying  his  luck.  His  mouth  was  a  little  to  a 
side;  one  nostril  nearly  shut,  and  the  other  much  inflated. 
The  black  dog  was  on  his  back,  as  people  say,  in  terrifying 
nursery  metaphor;  and  he  breathed  hard  under  the  grue- 
some burden. 

"He  looks  as  if  he  could  knife  him,"  whispered  Tabary, 
with  round  eyes. 

The  monk  shuddered,  and  turned  his  face  and  spread  his 
open  hands  to  the  red  embers.  It  was  £he  cold  that  thus 
affected  Dom  Nicolas,  and  not  any  excess  of  moral  sensi- 
bility. 

"Come1  now,"  said  Villon — "about  this  ballade.  How 
does  it  run  so  far?"  And  beating  time  with  his  hand,  he 
read  it  aloud  to  Tabary. 

They  were  interrupted  at  the  fourth  rhyme  by  a  brief 
and  fatal  movement  among  the  gamesters.  The  round  was 
completed,  and  Thevenin  was  just  opening  his  mouth  to 
claim  another  victory,  when  Montigny  leaped  up,  swift  as 
an  adder,  and  stabbed  him  to  the  heart.  The  blow  took 
effect  before  he  had  time  to  utter  a  cry,  before  he  had  time 
to  move.  A  tremor  or  two  convulsed  his  frame;  his  hands 
opened  and  shut,  his  heels  rattled  on  the  floor;  then  his 
head  rolled  backward  over  one  shoulder  with  the  eyes  wide 
open,  and  Thevenin  Pensete's  spirit  had  returned  to  Him 
who  made  it. 

Everyone  sprang  to  his  feet;  but  the  business  was  over 
in  two  twos.  The  four  living  fellows  looked  at  each  other 
in  rather  a  ghastly  fashion;  the  dead  man  contemplating 
a  corner  of  the  roof  with  a  singular  and  ugly  leer. 

"My  God!"  said  Tabary;  and  he  began  to  pray  in 
Latin. 

Villon  broke  out  into  hysterical  laughter.  He  came  a 
step  forward  and  ducked  a  ridiculous  bow  at  Thevenin,  and 
laughed  still  louder.  Then  he  sat  down  suddenly,  all  of  a 


A  LODGING  FOR  THE  NIGHT  31 

heap,  upon  a  stool,  and  continued  laughing  bitterly  as 
though  he  would  shake  himself  to  pieces. 

Montigny  recovered  his  composure  first. 

"Let's  see  what  he  has  about  him,"  he  remarked,  and 
he  picked  the  dead  man's  pockets  with  a  practised  hand, 
and  divided  the  money  into  four  equal  portions  on  the 
table.  "There's  for  you,"  he  said. 

The  monk  received  his  share  with  a  deep  sigh,  and  a 
single  stealthy  glance  at  the  dead  Thevenin,  who  was  be- 
ginning to  sink  into  himself  and  topple  sideways  off  the 
chair. 

"We're  all  in  for  it,"  cried  Villon,  swallowing  his  mirth. 
"It's  a  hanging  job  for  every  man  jack  of  us  that's  here — 
not  to  speak  of  those  who  aren't."  He  made  a  shocking  ges- 
ture in  the  air  with  his  raised  right  hand,  and  put  out  his 
tongue  and  threw  his  head  on  one  side,  so  as  to  counter- 
feit the  appearance  of  one  who  has  been  hanged.  Then 
he  pocketed  his  share  of  the  spoil,  and  executed  a  shuffle 
with  his  feet  as  if  to  restore  the  circulation. 

Tabary  was  the  last  to  help  himself;  he  made  a  dash  at 
the  money,  and  retired  to  the  other  end  of  the  apartment. 

Montigny  stuck  Thevenin  upright  in  the  chair,  and  drew 
out  the  dagger,  which  was  followed  by  a  jet  of  blood. 

"You  fellows  had  better  be  moving,"  he  said,  as  he  wiped 
the  blade  on  his  victim's  doublet. 

"I  think  we  had,"  returned  Villon,  with  a  gulp.  "Damn 
his  fat  head!"  he  broke  out.  "It  sticks  in  my  throat  like 
phlegm.  What  right  has  a  man  to  have  red  hair  when  he 
is  dead?"  And  he  fell  all  of  a  heap  again  upon  the  stool, 
and  fairly  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

Montigny  and  Dom  Nicolas  laughed  aloud,  even  Tabary 
feebly  chiming  in. 

"Cry  baby,"  said  the  monk. 

"I  always  said  he  was  a  woman,"  added  Montigny,  with 
a  sneer.  "Sit  up,  can't  you?"  he  went  on,  giving  another 
shake  to  the  murdered  body.  "Tread  out  that  fire,  Nick!" 

But  Nick  was  better  employed;  he  was  quietly  taking 
Villon's  purse,  as  the  poet  sat,  limp  and  trembling,  on  the 
stool  where  he  had  been  making  a  ballade  not  three  min- 


32     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

utes  before.  Montigny  and  Tabary  dumbly  demanded  a 
share  of  the  booty,  which  the  monk  silently  promised  as 
he  passed  the  little  bag  into  the  bosom  of  his  gown.  In 
many  ways  an  artistic  nature  unfits  a  man  for  practical 
existence. 

No  sooner  had  the  theft  been  accomplished  than  Villon 
shook  himself,  jumped  to  his  feet,  and  began  helping  to 
scatter  and  extinguish  the  embers.  Meanwhile  Montigny 
opened  the  door  and  cautiously  peered  into  the  street.  The 
coast  was  clear;  there  was  no  meddlesome  patrol  in  sight. 
Still  it  was  judged  wiser  to  slip  out  severally;  and  as  Villon 
was  himself  in  a  hurry  to  escape  from  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  dead  Thevenin,  and  the  rest  were  in  a  still  greater 
hurry  to  get  rid  of  him  before  he  should  discover  the  loss 
of  his  money,  he  was  the  first  by  general  consent  to  issue 
forth  into  the  street. 

The  wind  had  triumphed  and  swept  all  the  clouds  from 
heaven.  Only  a  few  vapours,  as  thin  as  moonlight,  fleeted 
rapidly  across  the  stars.  It  was  bitter  cold;  and  by  a  com- 
mon optical  effect,  things  seemed  almost  more  definite  than 
in  the  broadest  daylight.  The  sleeping  city  was  absolutely 
still;  a  company  of  white  hoods,  a  field  full  of  little  alps, 
below  the  twinkling  stars.  Villon  cursed  his  fortune. 
Would  it  were  still  snowing!  Now,  wherever  he  went,  he 
left  an  indelible  trail  behind  him  on  the  glittering  streets; 
wherever  he  went  he  was  still  tethered  to  the  house  by  the 
cemetery  of  St.  John;  wherever  he  went  he  must  weave, 
with  his  own  plodding  feet,  the  rope  that  bound  him  to 
the  crime  and  would  bind  him  to  the  gallows.  The  leer 
of  the  dead  man  came  back  to  him  with  a  new  significance. 
He  snapped  his  fingers  as  if  to  pluck  up  his  own  spirits, 
and  choosing  a  street  at  random,  stepped  boldly  forward  in 
the  snow. 

Two  things  preoccupied  him  as  he  went:  the  aspect  of 
the  gallows  at  Montfaucon  in  this  bright,  windy  phase  of 
the  night's  existence,  for  one;  and  for  another,  the  look  of 
the  dead  man  with  his  bald  head  and  garland  of  red  curls. 
Both  struck  cold  upon  his  heart,  and  he  kept  quickening 
his  pace  as  if  he  could  escape  from  unpleasant  thoughts  by 


A  LODGING  FOR  THE  NIGHT  33 

mere  fleetness  of  foot.  Sometimes  he  looked  back  over  his 
shoulder  with  a  sudden  nervous  jerk;  but  he  was  the  only 
moving  thing  in  the  white  streets,  except  when  the  wind 
swooped  round  a  corner  and  threw  up  the  snow,  which  was 
beginning  to  freeze,  in  spouts  of  glittering  dust. 

Suddenly  he  saw,  a  long  way  before  him,  a  black  clump 
and  a  couple  of  lanterns.  The  clump  was  in  motion,  and 
the  lanterns  swung  as  though  carried  by  men  walking.  It 
was  a  patrol.  And  though  it  was  merely  crossing  his  line 
of  march  he  judged  it  wiser  to  get  out  of  eyeshot  as  speedily 
as  he  could.  He  was  not  in  the  humour  to  be  challenged, 
and  he  was  conscious  of  making  a  very  conspicuous  mark 
upon  the  snow.  Just  on  his  left  hand  there  stood  a  great 
hotel,  with  some  turrets  and  a  large  porch  before  the  door; 
it  was  half-ruinous,  he  remembered,  and  had  long  stood 
empty;  and  so  he  made  three  steps  of  it,  and  jumped  into 
the  shelter  of  the  porch.  It  was  pretty  dark  inside,  after 
the  glimmer  of  the  snowy  streets,  and  he  was  groping  for- 
ward with  outspread  hands,  when  he  stumbled  over  some 
substance  which  offered  an  indescribable  mixture  of  re- 
sistances, hard  and  soft,  firm  and  loose.  His  heart  gave 
a  leap,  and  he  sprang  two  steps  back  and  stared  dreadfully 
at  the  obstacle.  Then  he  gave  a  little  laugh  of  relief.  It 
was  only  a  woman,  and  she  dead.  He  knelt  beside  her  to 
make  sure  upon  this  latter  point.  She  was  freezing  cold, 
and  rigid  like  a  stick.  A  little  ragged  finery  fluttered  in 
the  wind  about  her  hair,  and  her  cheeks  had  been  heavily 
rouged  that  same  afternoon.  Her  pockets  were  quite 
empty;  but  in  her  stocking,  underneath  the  garter,  Villon 
found  two  of  the  small  coins  that  went  by  the  name  of 
whites.  It  was  little  enough;  but  it  was  always  something; 
and  the  poet  was  moved  with  a  deep  sense  of  pathos  that 
she  should  have  died  before  she  had  spent  her  money. 
That  seemed  to  him  a  dark  and  pitiable  mystery;  and  he 
looked  from  the  coins  in  his  hand  to  the  dead  woman,  and 
back  again  to  the  coins,  shaking  his  head  over  the  riddle  of 
man's  life.  Henry  V.  of  England,  dying  at  Vincennes  just 
after  he  had  conquered  France,  and  this  poor  jade  cut  off 
by  a  cold  draught  in  a  great  man's  doorway,  before  she 


34    THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

had  time  to  spend  her  couple  of  whites — it  seemed  a  cruel 
way  to  carry  on  the  world.  Two  whites  would  have  taken 
such  a  little  while  to  squander;  and  yet  it  would  have  been 
one  more  good  taste  in  the  mouth,  one  more  smack  of  the 
lips,  before  the  devil  got  the  soul,  and  the  body  was  left 
to  birds  and  vermin.  He  would  like  to  use  all  his  tallow 
before  the  light  was  blown  out  and  the  lantern  broken. 

While  these  thoughts  were  passing  through  his  mind,  he 
was  feeling,  half  mechanically,  for  his  purse.  Suddenly  his 
heart  stopped  beating;  a  feeling  of  cold  scales  passed  up 
the  back  of  his  legs,  and  a  cold  blow  seemed  to  fall  upon 
his  scalp.  He  stood  petrified  for  a  moment;  then  he  felt 
again  with  one  feverish  movement;  and  then  his  loss  burst 
upon  him,  and  he  was  covered  at  once  with  perspiration. 
To  spendthrifts  money  is  so  living  and  actual — it  is  such 
a  thin  veil  between  them  and  their  pleasures!  There  is 
only  one  limit  to  their  fortune — that  of  time;  and  a  spend- 
thrift with  only  a  few  crowns  is  the  Emperor  of  Rome 
until  they  are  spent.  For  such  a  person  to  lose  his  money 
is  to  suffer  the  most  shocking  reverse,  and  fall  from  heaven 
to  hell,  from  all  to  nothing,  in  a  breath.  And  all  the  more 
if  he  has  put  his  head  in  the  halter  for  it;  if  he  may  be 
hanged  to-morrow  for  that  same  purse,  so  dearly  earned,  so 
foolishly  departed!  Villon  stood  and  cursed;  he  threw 
the  two  whites  into  the  street;  he  shook  his  fist  at  heaven; 
he  stamped,  and  was  not  horrified  to  find  himself  trampling 
the  poor  corpse.  Then  he  began  rapidly  to  retrace  his  steps 
towards  the  house  beside  the  cemetery.  He  had  forgotten 
all  fear  of  the  natrol,  which  was  long  gone  by  at  any  rate, 
and  had  no  idea  but  that  of  his  lost  purse.  It  was  in 
vain  that  he  looked  right  and  left  upon  the  snow:  nothing 
was  to  be  seen.  He  had  not  dropped  it  in  the  streets.  Had 
it  fallen  in  the  house?  He  would  have  liked  dearly  to  go 
in  and  see;  but  the  idea  of  the  grisly  occupant  unmanned 
him.  And  he  saw  besides,  as  he  drew  near,  that  their 
efforts  to  put  out  the  fire  had  been  unsuccessful;  on  the 
contrary,  it  had  broken  into  a  blaze,  and  a  changeful  light 
played  in  the  chinks  of  door  and  window,  and  revived  his 
terror  for  the  authorities  and  Paris  gibbet. 


A  LODGING  FOR  THE  NIGHT  35 

He  returned  to  the  hotel  with  the  porch,  and  groped 
about  upon  the  snow  for  the  money  he  had  thrown  away 
in  his  childish  passion.  But  he  could  only  find  one  white; 
the  other  had  probably  struck  sideways  and  sunk  deeply 
in.  With  a  single  white  in  his  pocket,  all  his  projects  for 
a  rousing  night  in  some  wild  tavern  vanished  utterly  away. 
And  it  was  not  only  pleasure  that  fled  laughing  from  his 
grasp;  positive  discomfort,  positive  pain,  attacked  him  as 
he  stood  ruefully  before  the  porch.  His  perspiration  had 
dried  upon  him;  and  although  the  wind  had  now  fallen,  a 
binding  frost  was  setting  in  stronger  with  every  hour,  and 
he  felt  benumbed  and  sick  at  heart.  What  was  to  be  done? 
Late  as  was  the  hour,  improbable  as  was  success,  he  would 
try  the  house  of  his  adopted  father,  the  chaplain  of  St. 
Benoit. 

He  ran  there  all  the  way,  and  knocked  timidly.  There 
was  no  answer.  He  knocked  again  and  again,  taking  heart 
with  every  stroke;  and  at  last  steps  were  heard  approaching 
from  within.  A  barred  wicket  fell  open  in  the  iron-studded 
door,  and  emitted  a  gush  of  yellow  light. 

"Hold  up  your  face  to  the  wicket,"  said  the  chaplain  from 
within. 

"It's  only  me,"  whimpered  Villon. 

"Oh,  it's  only  you,  is  it?"  returned  the  chaplain;  and  he 
cursed  him  with  foul  unpriestly  oaths  for  disturbing  him  at 
such  an  hour,  and  bade  him  be  off  to  hell,  where  he  came 
from. 

"My  hands  are  blue  to  the  wrist,"  pleaded  Villon;  "my 
feet  are  dead  and  full  of  twinges;  my  nose  aches  with  the 
sharp  air;  the  cold  lies  at  my  heart.  I  may  be  dead  before 
morning.  Only  this  once,  father,  and  before  God,  I  will 
never  ask  again!" 

"You  should  have  come  earlier,"  said  the  ecclesiastic 
coolly.  "Young  men  require  a  lesson  now  and  then."  He 
shut  the  wicket  and  retired  deliberately  into  the  interior 
of  the  house. 

Villon  was  beside  himself;  he  beat  upon  the  door  with 
his  hands  and  feet,  and  shouted  hoarsely  after  the  chaplain. 

"Wormy  old  fox!"  he  cried.    "If  I  had  my  hand  under 


36     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

your  twist,  I  would  send  you  flying  headlong  into  the  bot- 
tomless pit." 

A  door  shut  in  the  interior,  faintly  audible  to  the  poet 
down  long  passages.  He  passed  his  hand  over  his  mouth 
with  an  oath.  And  then  the  humour  of  the  situation  struck 
him,  and  he  laughed  and  looked  lightly  up  to  heaven,  where 
the  stars  seemed  to  be  winking  over  his  discomfiture. 

What  was  to  be  done?  It  looked  very  like  a  night  in  the 
frosty  streets.  The  idea  of  the  dead  woman  popped  into 
his  imagination,  and  gave  him  a  hearty  fright;  what  had 
happened  to  her  in  the  early  night  might  very  well  happen 
to  him  before  morning.  And  he  so  young!  and  with  such 
immense  possibilities  of  disorderly  amusement  before  him! 
He  felt  quite  pathetic  over  the  notion  of  his  own  fate,  as 
if  it  had  been  some  one  else's,  and  made  a  little  imaginative 
vignette  of  the  scene  in  the  morning  when  they  should  find 
his  body. 

He  passed  all  his  chances  under  review,  turning  the 
white  between  his  thumb  and  forefinger.  Unfortunately  he 
was  on  bad  terms  with  some  old  friends  who  would  once 
have  taken  pity  on  him  in  such  a  plight.  He  had  lam- 
pooned them  in  verses;  he  had  beaten  and  cheated  them; 
and  yet  now,  when  he  was  in  so  close  a  pinch,  he  thought 
there  was  at  least  one  who  might  perhaps  relent.  It  was 
chance.  It  was  worth  trying  at  least,  and  he  would  go 
and  see. 

On  the  way,  two  little  accidents  happened  to  him  which 
coloured  his  musings  in  a  very  different  manner.  For,  first, 
he  fell  in  with  the  track  of  a  patrol,  and  walked  in  it  for 
some  hundred  yards,  although  it  lay  out  of  his  direction. 
And  this  spirited  him  up;  at  least  he  had  confused  his 
trail;  for  he  was  still  possessed  with  the  idea  of  Deople 
tracking  him  all  about  Paris  over  the  snow,  and  collaring 
him  next  morning  before  he  was  awake.  The  other  matter 
affected  him  quite  differently.  He  passed  a  street  corner, 
where,  not  so  long  before,  a  woman  and  her  child  had  been 
devoured  by  wolves.  This  was  just  the  kind  of  weather, 
he  reflected,  when  wolves  might  take  it  into  their  heads 
to  enter  Paris  again;  and  a  lone  man  in  these  deserted 


A  LODGING  FOR  THE  NIGHT  37 

streets  would  run  the  chance  of  something  worse  than  a 
mere  scare.  He  stopped  and  looked  upon  the  place  with 
an  unpleasant  interest — it  was  a  centre  where  several  lanes 
intersected  each  other;  ano^he  looked  down  them  all,  one 
after  another,  and  held  his  breath  to  listen,  lest  he  should 
detect  some  galloping  black  things  on  the  snow  or  hear 
the  sound  of  howling  between  him  and  the  river.  He 
remembered  his  mother  telling  him  the  story  and  pointing 
out  the  spot,  while  he  was  yet  a  child.  His  mother!  If  he 
only  knew  where  she  lived,  he  might  make  sure  at  least 
of  shelter.  He  determined  he  would  inquire  upon  the  mor- 
row; nay,  he  would  go  and  see  her  too,  poor  old  girll  So 
thinking,  he  arrived  at  his  destination — his  last  hope  for 
the  night. 

The  house  was  quite  dark,  like  its  neighbours;  and  yet 
after  a  few  taps,  he  heard  a  movement  overhead,  a  door 
opening,  and  a  cautious  voice  asking  who  was  there.  The 
poet  named  himself  in  a  loud  whisper,  and  waited,  not  with- 
out some  trepidation,  the  result.  Nor  had  he  to  wait  long. 
A  window  was  suddenly  opened,  and  a  pailful  of  slops 
splashed  down  upon  the  doorstep.  Villon  had  not  been 
unprepared  for  something  of  the  sort,  and  had  put  himself 
as  much  in  shelter  as  the  nature  of  the  porch  admitted ;  but 
for  all  that,  he  was  deplorably  drenched  below  the  waist. 
His  hose  began  to  freeze  almost  at  once.  Death  from  cold 
and  exposure  stared  him  in  the  face;  he  remembered  he 
was  of  phthisical  tendency,  and  began  coughing  tentatively. 
But  the  gravity  of  the  danger  steadied  his  nerves.  He 
stopped  a  few  hundred  yards  from  the  door  where  he  had 
been  so  rudely  used,  and  reflected  with  his  finger  to  his 
nose.  He  could  only  see  one  way  of  getting  a  lodging,  and 
that  was  to  take  it.  He  had  noticed  a  house  not  far  away, 
which  looked  as  if  it  might  be  easily  broken  into,  and 
thither  he  betook  himself  promptly,  entertaining  himself  on 
the  way  with  the  idea  of  a  room  still  hot,  with  a  table 
still  loaded  with  the  remains  of  supper,  where  he  might 
pass  the  rest  of  the  black  hours  and  whence  he  should 
issue,  on  the  morrow,  with  an  armful  of  valuable  plate. 
He  even  considered  on  what  viands  and  what  wines  he 


38    THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

should  prefer;  and  as  he  was  calling  the  roll  of  his  favourite 
dainties,  roast  fish  presented  itself  to  his  mind  with  an  odd 
mixture  of  amusement  and  horror. 

"I  shall  never  finish  that  ballade,"  he  thought  to  himself; 
and  then,  with  another  shudder  at  the  recollection,  "Oh, 
damn  his  fat  head!"  he  repeated  fervently,  and  spat  upon 
the  snow. 

The  house  in  question  looked  dark  at  first  sight;  but  as 
Villon  made  a  preliminary  inspection  in  search  of  the  handi- 
est point  of  attack,  a  little  twinkle  of  light  caught  his 
eye  from  behind  a  curtained  window. 

"The  devil!"  he  thought.  "People  awake!  Some  stu- 
dent or  some  saint,  confound  the  crew!  Can't  they  get 
drunk  and  lie  in  bed  snoring  like  their  neighbours!  What's 
the  good  of  curfew,  and  poor  devils  of  bell-ringers  jump- 
ing at  a  rope's  end  in  bell-towers?  What's  the  use  of  day, 
if  people  sit  up  all  night?  The  gripes  to  them!"  He 
grinned  as  he  saw  where  his  logic  was  leading  him.  "Every 
man  to  his  business,  after  all,"  added  he,  "and  if  they're 
awake,  by  the  Lord,  I  may  come  by  a  supper  honestly  for 
once,  and  cheat  the  devil." 

He  went  boldly  to  the  door  and  knocked  with  an  assured 
hand.  On  both  previous  occasions,  he  had  knocked  timidly 
and  with  some  dread  of  attracting  notice;  but  now  when 
he  had  just  discarded  the  thought  of  a  burglarious  entry, 
knocking  at  a  door  seemed  a  mighty  simple  and  innocent 
proceeding.  The  sound  of  his  blows  echoed  through  the 
house  with  thin,  phantasmal  reverberations,  as  though  it 
were  quite  empty;  but  these  had  scarcely  died  away  be- 
fore a  measured  tread  drew  near,  a  couple  of  bolts  were 
withdrawn,  and  one  wing  was  opened  broadly,  as  though 
no  guile  or  fear  of  guile  were  known  to  those  within.  A 
tall  figure  of  a  man,  muscular  and  spare,  but  a  little  bent, 
confronted  Villon.  The  head  was  massive  in  bulk,  but 
finely  sculptured;  the  nose  blunt  at  the  bottom,  but  refining 
upward  to  where  it  joined  a  pair  of  strong  and  honest  eye- 
brows; the  mouth  and  eyes  surrounded  with  delicate  mark- 
ings, and  the  whole  face  based  upon  a  thick  white  beard, 
boldly  and  squarely  trimmed.  Seen  as  it  was  by  the  light 


A  LODGING  FOR  THE  NIGHT  39 

of  a  flickering  hand-lamp,  it  looked  perhaps  nobler  than  it 
had  a  right  to  do;  but  it  was  a  fine  face,  honourable  rather 
than  intelligent,  strong,  simple,  and  righteous. 

"You  knock  late,  sir,"  said  the  old  man  in  resonant, 
courteous  tones. 

Villon  cringed,  and  brought  up  many  servile  words  of 
apology;  at  a  crisis  of  this  sort,  the  beggar  was  uppermost 
in  him,  and  the  man  of  genius  hid  his  head  with  confusion. 

"You  are  cold,"  repeated  the  old  man,  "and  hungry? 
Well,  step  in."  And  he  ordered  him  into  the  house  with  a 
noble  enough  gesture. 

"Some  great  seigneur,"  thought  Villon,  as  h!s  host,  setting 
down  the  lamp  on  the  flagged  pavement  of  the  entry,  shot 
the  bolts  once  more  into  their  places. 

"You  will  pardon  me  if  I  go  in  front,"  he  said,  when  this 
was  done;  and  he  preceded  the  poet  upstairs  into  a  large 
apartment,  warmed  with  a  pan  of  charcoal  and  lit  by  a 
great  lamp  hanging  from  the  roof.  It  was  very  bare  of 
furniture.  Only  some  gold  plate  on  a  sideboard;  some  folios; 
and  a  stand  of  armour  between  the  windows.  Some  smart 
tapestry  hung  upon  the  walls,  representing  the  crucifixion 
of  our  Lord  in  one  piece,  and  in  another  a  scene  of  shep- 
herds and  shepherdesses  by  a  running  stream.  Over  the 
chimney  was  a  shield  of  arms. 

"Will  you  seat  yourself,"  said  the  old  man,  "and  for- 
give me  if  I  leave  you?  I  am  alone  in  my  house  to-night, 
and  if  you  are  to  eat  I  must  forage  for  you  myself." 

No  sooner  was  his  host  gone  than  Villon  leaped  from 
the  chair  on  which  he  had  just  seated  himself,  and  began 
examining  the  room,  with  the  stealth  and  passion  of  a  cat. 
He  weighed  the  gold  flagons  in  his  hand,  opened  all  the 
folios,  and  investigated  the  arms  upon  the  shield,  and  the 
stuff  with  which  the  seats  were  lined.  He  raised  the 
window  curtains,  and  saw  that  the  windows  were  set  with 
rich  stained  glass  in  figures,  so  far  as  he  could  see,  of 
martial  import.  Then  he  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
drew  a  long  breath,  and  retaining  it  with  puffed  cheeks, 
looked  round  and  round  him,  turning  on  his  heels,  as  if 
to  impress  every  feature  of  the  apartment  on  his  memory. 


40     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

"Seven  pieces  of  plate,"  he  said.  "If  there  had  been 
ten,  I  would  have  risked  it.  A  fine  house,  and  a  fine  old 
master,  so  help  me  all  the  saints!" 

And  just  then,  hearing  the  old  man's  tread  returning 
along  the  corridor,  he  stole  back  to  his  chair,  and  began 
humbly  toasting  his  wet  legs  before  the  charcoal  pan. 

His  entertainer  had  a  plate  of  meat  in  one  hand,  and  a 
jug  of  wine  in  the  other.  He  sat  down  the  plate  upon  the 
table,  motioning  Villon  to  draw  in  his  chair,  and  going  to 
the  sideboard,  brought  back  two  goblets,  which  he  filled. 

"I  drink  your  better  fortune,"  he  said,  gravely  touching 
Villon's  cup  with  his  own. 

"To  our  better  acquaintance,"  said  the  poet,  growing  bold, 
A  mere  man  of  the  people  would  have  been  awed  by  the 
courtesy  of  the  old  seigneur,  but  Villon  was  hardened  in 
that  matter;  he  had  made  mirth  for  great  lords  before  now, 
and  found  them  as  black  rascals  as  himself.  And  so  he 
devoted  himself  to  the  viands  v/ith  a  ravenous  gusto,  while 
the  old  man,  leaning  backward,  watched  him  with  steady, 
curious  eyes. 

"You  have  blood  on  your  shoulder,  my  man,"  he  said. 

Montigny  must  have  laid  his  wet  right  hand  upon  him 
as  he  left  the  house.  He  cursed  Montigny  in  his  heart. 

"It  was  none  of  my  shedding,"  he  stammered. 

"I  had  not  supposed  so,"  returned  his  host  quietly.  "A 
brawl?" 

"Well,  something  of  that  sort,"  Villon  admitted  with  a 
quaver. 

"Perhaps  a  fellow  murdered?" 

"Oh  no,  not  murdered,"  said  the  poet,  more  and  more 
confused.  "It  was  all  fair  play — murdered  by  accident. 
I  had  no  hand  in  it,  God  strike  me  dead!"  he  added  fer- 
vently. 

"One  rogue  the  fewer,  I  dare  say,"  observed  the  master 
of  the  house. 

"You  may  dare  to  say  that,"  agreed  Villon,  infinitely 
relieved.  "As  big  a  rogue  as  there  is  between  here  and 
Jerusalem.  He  turned  up  his  toes  like  a  lamb.  But  it  was 
a  nasty  thing  to  look  at.  I  dare  say  you've  seen  dead  men 


A  LODGING  FOR  THE  NIGHT  41 

in  your  time,  my  lord?"  he  added,  glancing  at  the  armour. 

"Many,"  said  the  old  man.  "I  have  followed  the  wars, 
as  you  imagine." 

Villon  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  which  he  had  just 
taken  up  again. 

"Were  any  of  them  bald?"  he  asked. 

"Oh  yes,  and  with  hair  as  white  as  mine." 

"I  don't  think  I  should  mind  the  white  so  much,"  said 
Villon.  "His  was  red."  And  he  had  a  return  of  his  shud- 
dering and  tendency  to  laughter,* which  he  drowned  with 
a  great  draught  of  wine.  "I'm  a  little  put  out  when  I 
think  of  it,"  he  went  on.  "I  knew  him — damn  him!  And 
then  the  ccld  gives  a  man  fancies — or  the  fancies  give  a 
man  cold,  I  don't  know  which." 

"Have  you  any  money?"  asked  the  old  man. 

"I  have  one  white,"  returned  the  poet,  laughing.  "I  got 
it  out  of  a  dead  jade's  stocking  in  a  porch.  She  was  as 
dead  as  Ccesar,  poor  wench,  and  as  cold  as  a  church,  with 
bits  of  ribbon  sticking  in  her  hair.  This  is  a  hard  world 
in  winter  for  wolves  and  wenches  and  poor  rogues  like  me." 

"I,"  said  the  old  man,  "am  Enguerrand  de  la  Feuillee, 
seigneur  de  Brisetout,  'bailly  du  Patatrac.  Who  and  what 
may  you  be?" 

Villon  rose  and  made  'a  suitable  reverence.  "I  am  called 
Francis  Villon,"  he  said,  "a  poor  Master  of  Arts  of  this 
university.  I  know  some  Latin,  and  a  deal  of  vice.  I  can 
make  chansons,  ballades,  lais,  virelais,  and  roundels,  and 
I  am  very  fond  of  wine.  I  was  born  in  a  garret,  and  I  shall 
not  improbably  die  upon  the  gallows.  I  may  add,  my  lord, 
that  from  this  night  forward  I  am  your  lordship's  very 
obsequious  servant  to  command." 

"No  servant  of  mine,"  said  the  knight;  "my  guest  for 
this  evening,  and  no  more." 

"A  very  grateful  guest,"  said  Villon,  politely,  and  he 
drank  in  dumb  show  to  his  entertainer. 

"You  are  shrewd,"  began  the  old  man,  tapping  his  fore- 
head, "very  shrewd;  you  have  learning;  you  are  a  clerk; 
and  yet  you  take  a  small  piece  of  money  off  a  dead  woman 
in  the  street.  Is  it  not  a  kind  of  theft?" 


42     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

"It  is  a  kind  of  theft  much  practised  in  the  wars,  my 
lord." 

"The  wars  are  the  field  of  honour,"  returned  the  old 
man  proudly.  "There  a  man  plays  his  life  upon  the  cast; 
he  fights  in  the  name  of  his  lord  the  king,  his  Lord  God, 
and  all  their  lordships  the  holy  saints  and  angels." 

"Put  it,"  said  Villon,  "that  I  were  really  a  thief,  should 
I  not  play  my  life  also,  and  against  heavier  odds?" 

"For  gain  but  not  for  honour." 

"Gain?"  repeated  Villon  with  a  shrug.  "Gain!  The 
poor  fellow  wants  supper,  and  takes  it.  So  does  the  soldier 
in  a  campaign.  Why,  what  are  all  these  requisitions  we 
hear  so  much  about?  If  they  are  not  gain  to  those  who 
take  them,  they  are  loss  enough  to  the  others.  The  men- 
at-arms  drink  by  a  good  fire,  while  the  burgher  bites  his 
nails  to  buy  them  wine  and  wood.  I  have  seen  a  good 
many  ploughmen  swinging  on  trees  about  the  country;  ay, 
I  have  seen  thirty  on  one  elm,  and  a  very  poor  figure  they 
made;  and  when  I  asked  someone  how  all  these  came  to 
be  hanged,  I  was  told  it  was  because  they  could  not  scrape 
together  enough  crowns  to  satisfy  the  men-at-arms." 

"These  things  are  a  necessity  of  war,  which  the  low- 
born must  endure  with  constancy.  It  is  true  that  some 
captains  drive  overhard;  there  are  spirits  in  every  rank 
not  easily  moved  by  pity;  and  indeed  many  follow  arms 
who  are  no  better  than  brigands." 

"You  see,"  said  the  poet,  "you  cannot  separate  the 
soldier  from  the  brigand;  and  what  is  a  thief  but  an  isolated 
brigand  with  circumspect  manners?  I  steal  a  couple  of 
mutton  chops,  without  so  much  as  disturbing  neoplc's  sleep; 
the  farmer  grumbles  a  bit,  but  sups  none  the  less  whole- 
somely on  what  remains.  You  come  up  blowing  gloriously 
on  a  trumpet,  take  away  the  whole  sheep,  and  beat  the 
farmer  pitifully  into  the  bargain.  I  have  no  trumpet;  I 
am  only  Tom,  Dick,  or  Harry;  I  am  a  rogue  and  a  dog, 
and' hanging's  too  good  for  me — with  all  my  heart;  but  just 
ask  the  farmer  which  of  us  he  prefers,  just  find  out  which 
of  us  he  lies  awake  to  curse  on  cold  nights." 

"Look  at  us  two,"  said  his  lordship.    "I  am  old,  strong, 


A  LODGING  FOR  THE  NIGHT  43 

and  honoured.  If  I  were  turned  from  my  house  to-morrow, 
hundreds  would  be  proud  to  shelter  me.  Poor  people  would 
go  out  and  pass  the  nights  in  the  streets  with  their  children, 
if  I  merely  hinted  that  I  wished  to  be  alone.  And  I  find 
you  up,  wandering  homeless,  and  picking  farthings  off  dead 
women  by  the  wayside!  I  fear  no  man  and  nothing;  I 
have  seen  you  tremble  and  lose  countenance  at  a  word.  I 
wait  God's  summons  contentedly  in  my  own  house,  or,  if  it 
please  the  king  to  call  me  again,  upon  the  field  of  battle. 
You  look  for  the  gallows;  a  rough,  swift  death,  without 
hope  or  honour.  Is  there  no  difference  between  these  two?" 

"As  far  as  to  the  moon,"  Villon  acquiesced.  "But  if  I 
had  been  born  lord  of  Brisetout,  and  you  had  been  the  poor 
scholar  Francis,  would  the  difference  have  been  any  the 
less?  Should  not  I  have  been  warming  my  knees  at  this 
charcoal  pan,  and  would  not  you  have  been  groping  for 
farthings  in  the  snow?  Should  not  I  have  been  the  soldier, 
and  you  the  thief?" 

"A  thief?"  cried  the  old  man.  "I  a  thief!  If  you 
understood  your  words,  you  would  repent  them." 

Villon  turned  out  his  hands  with  a  gesture  of  inimitable 
impudence.  "If  your  lordship  had  done  me  the  honour 
to  follow  my  argument!"  he  said. 

"I  do  you  too  much  honour  in  submitting  to  your  pres- 
ence," said  the  knight.  "Learn  to  curb  your  tongue  when 
you  speak  with  old  and  honourable  men,  or  some  one 
hastier  than  I  may  reprove  you  in  a  sharper  fashion." 
And  he  rose  and  paced  the  lower  end  of  the  apartment, 
struggling  with  anger  and  antipathy.  Villon  surreptitiously 
refilled  his  cup,  and  settled  himself  more  comfortably  in 
the  chair,  crossing  his  knees  and  leaning  his  head  upon  one 
hand  and  the  elbow  against  the  back  of  the  chair.  He 
was  now  replete  and  warm ;  and  he  was  in  nowise  frightened 
for  his  host,  having  gauged  him  as  justly  as  was  possible 
between  two  such  different  characters.  The  night  was  far 
spent,  and  in  a  very  comfortable  fashion  after  all;  and  he 
felt  morally  certain  of  a  safe  departure  on  the  morrow. 

"Tell  me  one  thing,"  said  the  old  man,  pausing  in  his 
walk.  "Are  you  really  a  thief?" 


44    THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

"I  claim  the  sacred  rights  of  hospitality,"  returned  the 
poet.  "My  lord,  I  am." 

"You  are  very  young,"  the  knight  continued. 

"I  should  never  have  been  so  old,"  replied  Villon,  show- 
ing his  fingers,  "if  I  had  not  helped  myself  with  these  ten 
talents.  They  have  been  my  nursing  mothers  and  my 
nursing  fathers." 

"You  may  still  repent  and  change." 

"I  repent  daily,"  said  the  poet.  "There  are  few  people 
more  given  to  repentance  than  poor  Francis.  As  for 
change,  let  somebody  change  my  circumstances.  A  man 
must  continue  to  eat,  if  it  were  only  that  he  may  continue 
to  repent." 

"The  change  must  begin  in  the  heart,"  returned  the 
old  man  solemnly. 

"My  dear  lord,"  answered  Villon,  "do  you  really  fancy 
that  I  steal  for  pleasure?  I  hate  stealing,  like  any  other 
piece  of  work  or  of  danger.  My  teeth  chatter  when  I  see 
a  gallows.  But  I  must  eat,  I  must  drink,  I  must  mix  in 
society  of  some  sort.  What  the  devil!  Man  is  not  a  soli- 
tary animal — cut  Deus  jceminam  tradit.  Make  me  king's 
pantler — make  me  abbot  of  St.  Denis;  make  me  bailly  of 
the  Patatrac;  and  then  I  shall  be  changed  indeed.  But 
as  long  as  you  leave  me  the  poor  scholar  Francis  Villon, 
without  a  farthing,  why,  of  course,  I  remain  the  same 

"The  grace  of  God  is  all-powerful." 

"I  should  be  a  heretic  to  question  it,"  said  Francis, 
has  made  you  lord  of  Brisetout  and  bailly  of  the  Patatrac; 
it  has  given  me  nothing  but  the  quick  wits  under  my 
hat  and  these  ten  toes  upon  my  hands.  May  I  help  my- 
self to  wine?  I  thank  you  respectfully.  By  God's  grace, 
you  have  a  very  superior  vintage." 

The  lord  of  Brisetout  walked  to  and  fro  with  his  hands 
behind  his  back.  Perhaps  he  was  not  yet  quite  settled  in 
his  mind  about  the  parallel  between  thieves  and  soldiers; 
perhaps  Villon  had  interested  him  by  some  cross-thread  of 
sympathy;  perhaps  his  wits  were  simply  muddled  by  so 
much  unfamiliar  reasoning;  but  whatever  the  cause,  he 
somehow  yearned  to  convert  the  young  man  to  a  better 


u.  X>UL 
;  Villon, 
ic." 

:is.    "It 


A  LODGING  FOR  THE  NIGHT  45 

way  of  thinking,  and  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  drive 
him  forth  again  into  the  street. 

"There  is  something  more  than  I  can  understand  in  this," 
he  said  at  length.  "Your  mouth  is  full  of  subtleties,  and 
the  devil  has  led  you  very  far  astray;  but  the  devil  is  only 
a  very  weak  spirit  before  God's  truth,  and  all  his  subtleties 
vanish  at  a  word  of  true  honour,  like  darkness  at  morning. 
Listen  to  me  once  more.  I  learned  long  ago  that  a  gentle- 
man should  live  chivalrously  and  lovingly  to  God,  and  the 
king,  and  his  lady;  and  though  I  have  seen  many  strange 
things  done,  I  have  still  striven  to  command  my  ways  upon 
that  rule.  It  is  not  only  written  in  all  noble  histories,  but 
in  every  man's  heart,  if  he  will  take  care  to  read.  You 
speak  of  food  and  wine,  and  I  know  very  well  that  hunger 
is  a  difficult  trial  to  endure;  but  you  do  not  speak  of  other 
wants;  you  say  nothing  of  honour,  of  faith  to  God  and 
other  men,  of  courtesy,  of  love  without  reproach.  It  may 
be  that  I  am  not  very  wise — and  yet  I  think  I  am — but 
you  seem  to  me  like  one  who  has  lost  his  way  and  made 
a  great  error  in  life.  You  are  attending  to  the  little  wants, 
and  you  have  totally  forgotten  the  great  and  only  real  ones, 
like  a  man  who  should  be  doctoring  toothache  on  the  Judg- 
ment Day.  For  such  things  as  honour  and  love  and  faith 
are  not  only  nobler  than  food  and  drink,  but  indeed  I  think 
we  desire  them  more,  and  suffer  more  sharply  for  their 
absence.  I  speak  to  you  as  I  think  you  will  most  easily 
understand  me.  Are  you  not,  while  careful  to  fill  your 
belly,  disregarding  another  appetite  in  your  heart,  which 
spoils  your  pleasure  and  keeps  you  continually  wretched?" 

Villon  was  sensibly  nettled  under  all  this  sermonising. 
"You  think  I  have  no  sense  of  honour!"  he  cried.  "I'm 
poor  enough,  God  knows!  It's  hard  to  see  rich  people  with 
their  gloves,  and  you  blowing  in  your  hands.  An  empty 
belly  is  a  bitter  thing,  although  you  speak  so  lightly  of  it. 
If  you  had  had  as  many  as  I,  perhaps  you  would  change 
your  tune.  Any  way  I'm  a  thief — make  the  most  of  that — 
but  I'm  not  a  devil  from  hell,  God  strike  me  dead.  I  would 
have  you  to  know  I've  an  honour  of  my  own,  as  good  as 
yours,  though  I  don't  prate  about  it  all  day  long,  as  if  it 


46    THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  '          IES 

was  a  God's  miracle  to  have  any.  It  seems  qui  e  natural 
to  me;  I  keep  it  in  its  box  till  it's  wanted.  Why  now, 
look  you  here,  how  long  have  I  been  in  this  room  with  you? 
Did  you  not  tell  me  you  were  alone  in  the  hou;:e?  Look  at 
your  gold  plate!  You're  strong,  if  you  like,  but  you're  old 
and  unarmed,  and  I  have  my  knife.  What  did  I  want  but 
a  jerk  of  the  elbow  and  here  would  have  been  you  with  the 
cold  steel  in  your  bowels,  and  there  wouM  have  been  me, 
linking  in  the  streets,  with  an  armful  of  golden  cups!  Did 
you  suppose  I  hadn't  wit  enough  to  see  that?  And  I 
scorned  the  action.  There  are  your  damned  goblets,  as 
safe  as  in  a  church;  there  are  you,  with  your  heart  ticking 
as  good  as  new;  and  here  am  I,  ready  to  go  out  again  as 
poor  as  I  came  in,  with  my  one  white  that  you  threw  in 
my  teeth!  And  you  think  I  have  no  sense  of  honour — God 
strike  me  dead!" 

The  old  man  stretched  out  his  right  arm.  "I  will  tell 
you  what  you  are,"  he  said.  "You  are  a  rogue,  my  man, 
an  impudent  and  black-hearted  rogue  and  vagabond.  I 
have  passed  an  hour  with  you.  Oh !  believe  me,  I  feel  my- 
self disgraced!  And  you  have  eaten  and  drunk  at  my 
table.  But  now  I  am  sick  at  your  presence;  the  day  has 
come,  and  the  night-bird  should  be  off  to  his  roost.  Will 
you  go  before,  or  after?" 

"Which  you  please,"  returned  the  poet,  rising.  "I  be- 
lieve you  to  be  strictly  honourable."  He  thoughtfully 
emptied  his  cup.  "I  wish  I  could  add  you  were  intelligent," 
he  went  on,  knocking  on  his  head  with  his  knuckles.  "Age! 
age!  the  brains  stiff  and  rheumatic." 

The  old. man  preceded  him  from  a  point  of  self-respect; 
Villon  followed,  whistling,  with  his  thumbs  in  his  girdle. 

"God  pity  you,"  said  the  lord  of  Brisetout  at  the  door. 

"Good-bye,  papa,"  returned  Villon  with  a  yawn.  "Many 
thanks  for  the  cold  mutton." 

The  door  closed  behind  him.  The  dawn  was  breaking  over 
the  white  roofs.  A  chill,  uncomfortable  morning  ushered 
in  the  day.  Villon  stood  and  heartily  stretched  himself. 

"A  very  dull  old  gentleman,"  he  thought.  "I  wonder 
what  his  goblets  may  be  worth." 


THE  STAR-CHILD 

BY  OSCAR  WILDE 
To  Miss  Margot  Tennant 

ONCE  upon  a  time  two  poor  Woodcutters  were  mak- 
ing their  way  home  through  a  great  pine-forest.    Ifc 
was  winter,  and  a  night  of  bitter  cold.    The  snow 
lay  thick  upon  the  ground,  and  upon  the  branches  of  the 
trees;  the  frost  kept  snapping  the  little  twigs  on  either  side 
of  them,  as  they  passed;    and  when  they  came  to  the 
Mountain-Torrent  she  was  hanging  motionless  in  air,  for 
the  Ice-King  had  kissed  her. 

So  cold  was  it  that  even  the  animals  and  the  birds  did 
not  know  what  to  make  of  it. 

"Ugh!"  snarled  the  Wolf,  as  he  limped  through  the 
brushwood  with  his  tail  between  his  legs,  "this  is  perfectly 
monstrous  weather.  Why  doesn't  the  Government  look 
to  it?" 

"Weet!  weet!  weet!"  twittered  the  green  Linnets,  "the 
old  Earth  is  dead,  and  they  have  laid  her  out  in  her  white 
shroud." 

"The  Earth  is  going  to  be  married,  and  this  is  her  bridal 
dress,"  whispered  the  Turtle-doves  to  each  other.  Their 
little  pink  feet  were  quite  frost-bitten,  but  they  felt  that 
it  was  their  duty  to  take  a  romantic  view  of  the  situation. 

"Nonsense!"  growled  the  Wolf.  "I  tell  you  that  it  is 
all  the  fault  of  the  Government,  and  if  you  don't  believe 
me  I  shall  eat  you."  The  Wolf  had  a  thoroughly  practical 
mind,  and  was  never  at  a  loss  for  a  good  argument. 

"Well,  for  my  own  part,"  said  the  Woodpecker  who  was  a 
born  philosopher,  "I  don't  care  an  atomic  theory  for  ex- 
planations. If  a  thing  is  so,  it  is  so,  and  at  present  it  fc 
terribly  cold." 

47 


48    THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

Terribly  cold  It  certainly  was.  The  little  Squirrels,  who 
lived  inside  the  tall  fir-tree,  kept  rubbing  each  other's  noses 
to  keep  themselves  warm,  and  the  Rabbits  curled  them- 
selves up  in  their  holes,  and  did  not  venture  even  to  look 
out  of  doors.  The  only  people  who  seemed  to  enjoy  it  were 
the  great  horned  Owls.  Their  feathers  were  quite  stiff 
with  rime,  but  they  did  not  mind,  and  they  rolled  their 
large  yellow  eyes,  and  called  out  to  each  other  across  thje 
forest,  "Tu-whit!  Tu-whoo!  Tu-whit!  Tu-whoo!  what 
delightful  weather  we  are  having!" 

On  and  on  went  the  two  Woodcutters,  blowing  lustily 
upon  their  fingers,  and  stamping  with  their  huge  iron-shod 
boots  upon  the  caked  snow.  Once  they  sank  into  a  deep 
drift,  and  came  out  as  white  as  millers  are,  when  the 
stones  are  grinding;  and  once  they  slipped  on  the  hard 
smooth  ice  where  the  marshwater  was  frozen,  and  their 
faggots  fell  out  of  their  bundles,  and  they  had  to  pick  them 
up  and  bind  them  together  again;  and  once  they  thought 
that  they  had  lost  their  way,  and  a  great  terror  seized  on 
them,  for  they  knew  that  the  Snow  is  cruel  to  those  who 
sleep  in  her  arms.  But  they  put  their  trust  in  the  good 
Saint  Martin,  who  watches  over  all  travellers,  and  retraced 
their  steps,  and  went  warily,  and  at  last  they  reached  the 
outskirts  of  the  forest,  and  saw,  far  down  in  the  valley 
beneath  them,  the  lights  of  the  village  in  which  they  dwelt. 

So  overjoyed  were  they  at  their  deliverance  that  they 
laughed  aloud,  and  the  Earth  seemed  to  them  like  a  flower 
of  silver,  and  the  Moon  like  a  flower  of  gold. 

Yet,  after  that  they  had  laughed  they  became  sad,  for 
they  remembered  their  poverty,  and  one  of  them  said  to 
the  other,  "Why  did  we  make  merry,  seeing  that  life  is 
for  the  rich,  and  not  for  such  as  we  are?  Better  that  we 
had  died  of  cold  in  the  forest,  or  that  some  wild  beast 
had  fallen  upon  us  and  slain  us." 

"Truly,"  answered  his  companion,  "much  is  given  to 
some,  and  little  is  given  to  others.  Injustice  has  parcelled 
out  the  world,  nor  is  there  equal  division  of  aught  save 
of  sorrow." 

But  as  they  were  bewailing  their  misery  to  each  other  this 


THE  STAR-CHILD  49 

strange  thing  happened.  There  fell  from  heaven  a  very 
bright  and  beautiful  star.  It  slipped  down  the  side  of 
the  sky,  passing  by  the  other  stars  in  its  course,  and,  as 
they  watched  it,  wondering,  it  seemed  to  them  to  sink 
behind  a  clump  of  willow-trees  that  stood  hard  by  a  little 
sheepfold  no  more  than  a  stone's-throw  away. 

"Why!  there  is  a  crock  of  gold  for  whoever  finds  it," 
they  cried,  and  they  set  to  and  ran,  so  eager  were  they  for 
the  gold. 

And  one  of  them  ran  faster  than  his  mate,  and  out- 
stripped him,  and  forced  his  way  through  the  willows,  and 
came  out  on  the  other  side,  and  lol  there  was  indeed  a  thing 
of  gold  lying  on  the  white  snow.  So  he  hastened  towards 
it,  and  stooping  down  placed  his  hands  upon  it,  and  it  was 
a  cloak  of  golden  tissue,  curiously  wrought  with  stars,  and 
wrapped  in  many  folds.  And  he  cried  out  to  his  comrade 
that  he  had  found  the  treasure  that  had  fallen  from  the 
sky,  and  when  his  comrade  had  come  up,  they  sat  them 
down  in  the  snow,  and  loosened  the  folds  of  the  cloak  that 
they  might  divide  the  pieces  of  gold.  But  alas!  no  gold 
was  in  it,  nor  silver,  nor,  indeed,  treasure  of  any  kind,  but 
only  a  little  child  who  was  asleep. 

And  one  of  them  said  to  the  other,  "This  is  a  bitter  end- 
ing to  our  hope,  nor  have  we  any  good  fortune,  for  what 
doth  a  child  profit  to  a  man?  Let  us  leave  it  here,  and  go 
our  way,  seeing  that  we  are  poor  men,  and  have  children 
of  our  own  whose  bread  we  may  not  give  to  another." 

But  his  companion  answered  him,  "Nay,  but  it  were  an 
evil  thing  to  leave  the  child  to  perish  here  in  the  snow, 
and  though  I  am  as  poor  as  thou  art,  and  have  many  mouths 
to  feed,  and  but  little  in  the  pot,  yet  will  I  bring  it  home 
with  me,  and  my  wife  shall  have  care  of  it." 

So  very  tenderly  he  took  up  the  child,  and  wrapped  the 
cloak  around  it  to  shield  it  from  the  harsh  cold,  and  made 
his  way  down  the  hill  to  the  village,  his  comrade  marvelling 
much  at  his  foolishness  and  softness  of  heart. 

And  when  they  came  to  the  village,  his  comrade  said  to 
him,  "Thou  hast  the  child,  therefore  give  me  the  cloak,  lor 
it  is  meet  that  we  should  share." 


50    THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

But  he  answered  him,  "Nay,  for  the  cloak  is  neither 
mine  nor  thine,  but  the  child's  only,"  and  he  bade  him 
God-speed,  and  went  to  his  own  house  and  knocked. 

And  when  his  wife  opened  the  door  and  saw  that  her 
husband  had  returned  safe  to  her,  she  put  her  arms  around 
his  neck  and  kissed  him,  and  took  from  his  back  the  bundle 
of  faggots,  and  brushed  the  snow  off  his  boots,  and  bade 
him  come  in. 

But  he  said  to  her,  "I  have  found  something  in  the  forest, 
and  I  have  brought  it  to  thee  to  have  care  of  it,"  and  he 
stirred  not  from  the  threshold. 

"What  is  it?"  she  cried.  "Show  it  to  me,  for  the  house 
is  bare,  and  we  have  need  of  many  things."  And  he  drew 
the  cloak  back,  and  showed  her  the  sleeping  child. 

"Alack,  goodman!"  she  murmured,  "Have  we  not  chil- 
dren of  our  own,  that  thou  must  needs  bring  a  changeling 
to  sit  by  the  hearth?  And  who  knows  if  it  will  not  bring 
us  bad  fortune?  And  how  shall  we  tend  it?"  And  she 
was  wroth  against  him. 

"Nay,  but  it  is  a  Star-Child,"  he  answered;  and  he  told 
her  the  strange  manner  of  the  finding  of  it. 

But  she  would  not  be  appeased,  but  mocked  at  Iiim,  and 
spoke  angrily,  and  cried,  "Our  children  lack  bread,  and 
shall  we  feed  the  child  of  another?  Who  is  there  who 
careth  for  us?  And  who  giveth  us  food?" 

"Nay,  but  God  careth  for  the  sparrows  even,  and  feedeth 
them,"  he  answered. 

"Do  not  the  sparrows  die  of  hunger  in  the  winter?"  she 
asked.  "And  is  it  not  winter  now?"  And  the  man  an- 
swered nothing,  but  stirred  not  from  the  threshold. 

And  a  bitter  wind  from  the  forest  came  in  through  the 
open  door,  and  made  her  tremble,  and  she  shivered,  and 
said  to  him,  "Wilt  thou  not  close  the  door?  There  cometh 
a  bitter  wind  into  the  house,  and  I  am  cold." 

"Into  a  house  where  a  heart  is  hard  cometh  there  not 
always  a  bitter  wind?"  he  asked.  And  the  woman  answered 
him  nothing,  but  crept  closer  to  the  fire. 

And  after  a  time  she  turned  round  and  looked  at  him, 
and  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  And  he  came  in  swiftly, 


THE  STAR-CHILD  51 

and  placed  the  child  in  her  arms,  and  she  kissed  it,  and 
laid  it  in  a  little  bed  where  the  youngest  of  their  own  chil- 
dren was  lying.  And  on  the  morrow  the  Woodcutter  took 
the  curious  cloak  of  gold  and  place.:  it  in  a  great  chest,  and 
a  chain  of  amber  that  was  round  the  child's  neck  his  wife 
took  and  set  it  in  the  chest  also. 

So  the  Star-Child  was  brought  up  with  the  children  of 
the  Woodcutter,  and  sat  at  the  same  board  with  them,  and 
was  their  playmate.  And  every  year  he  became  more 
beautiful  to  look  at,  so  that  all  those  who  dwelt  in  the 
village  were  filled  with  wonder,  for,  while  they  were  swarthy 
and  black-haired,  he  was  white  and  delicate  as  sawn  ivory, 
and  his  curls  were  like  the  rings  of  the  daffodil.  His  lips, 
also,  were  like  the  petals  of  a  red  flower,  and  his  eyes  were 
like  violets  by  a  river  of  pure  water,  and  his  body  like  the 
narcissus  of  a  field  where  the  mower  comes  not. 

Yet  did  his  beauty  work  him  evil.  For  he  grew  proud, 
and  cruel,  and  selfish.  The  children  of  the  Woodcutter, 
and  the  other  children  of  the  village,  he  despised,  saying 
that  they  were  of  mean  parentage,  while  he  was  noble, 
being  sprung  from  a  Star,  and  he  made  himself  master 
over  them,  and  called  them  his  servants.  No  pity  had  he 
for  the  poor,  or  for  those  who  were  blind  or  maimed  or 
in  any  way  afflicted,  but  would  cast  stones  at  them  and 
drive  them  forth  on  to  the  highway,  and  bid  them  beg 
their  bread  elsewhere,  so  that  none  save  the  outlaws  came 
twice  to  that  village  to  ask  for  alms.  Indeed,  he  was  aa 
one  enamoured  of  beauty,  and  would  mock  at  the  weakly 
and  ill-favoured,  and  make  jest  of  them;  and  himself  he 
loved,  and  in  summer,  when  the  winds  were  still,  he  would 
lie  by  the  well  in  the  priest's  orchard  and  look  down  at  tha 
marvel  of  his  own  face,  and  laugh  for  the  pleasure  he  had 
in  his  fairness. 

Often  did  the  Woodcutter  and  his  wife  chide  him,  and 
say,  "We  did  not  deal  with  thee  as  thou  dealest  with 
those  who  are  left  desolate,  and  have  none  to  succour  them. 
Wherefore  art  thou  so  cruel  to  all  who  need  pity?" 

Often  did  the  old  priest  send  for  him,  and  seek  to  teach 


52     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

him  the  love  of  living  things,  saying  to  him,  "The  fly  is 
thy  brother.  Do  it  no  harm.  The  wild  birds  that  roam 
through  the  forest  have  their  freedom.  Snare  them  not 
for  thy  pleasure.  God  made  the  blind-worm  and  the  mole, 
and  each  has  its  place.  Who  art  thou  to  bring  pain  into 
God's  world?  Even  the  cattle  of  the  field  praise  Him." 
But  the  Star-Child  heeded  not  their  words,  but  would 
frown  and  flout,  and  go  back  to  his  companions,  and  lead 
them.  And  his  companions  followed  him,  for  he  was  fair, 
and  fleet  of  foot,  and  could  dance,  and  pipe,  and  make 
music.  And  wherever  the  Star-Child  led  them  they  fol- 
lowed, and  whatever  the  Star-Child  bade  them  do,  that 
did  they.  And  when  he  pierced  with  a  sharp  reed  the  dim 
eyes  of  the  mole,  they  laughed,  and  when  he  cast  stones 
at  the  leper  they  laughed  also.  And  in  all  things  he  ruled 
them,  and  they  became  hard  of  heart  even  as  he  was. 

Now  there  passed  one  day  through  the  village  a  poor 
beggar-woman.  Her  garments  were  torn  and  ragged,  and 
her  feet  were  bleeding  from  the  rough  road  on  which  she 
had  travelled,  and  she  was  in  very  evil  plight.  And  being 
weary  she  sat  her  down  under  a  chestnut-tree  to  rest. 

But  when  the  Star-Child  saw  her  he  said  to  his  com- 
panions, "See!  There  sitteth  a  foul  beggar-woman  under 
that  fair  and  green-leaved  tree.  Come,  let  us  drive  her 
hence,  for  she  is  ugly  and  ill-favoured." 

So  he  came  near  and  threw  stones  at  her,  and  mocked 
her,  and  she  looked  at  him  with  terror  in  her  eyes,  nor 
did  she  move  her  gaze  from  him.  And  when  the  Wood- 
cutter, who  was  cleaving  logs  in  a  haggard  hard  by,  saw 
what  the  Star-Child  was  doing,  he  ran  up  and  rebuked  him, 
and  said  to  him,  "Surely  thou  art  hard  of  heart  and  know- 
est  not  mercy,  for  what  evil  has  this  poor  woman  done  to 
thee  that  thou  shouldst  treat  her  in  this  wise?" 

And  the  Star-Child  grew  red  with  anger,  and  stamped 
his  foot  upon  the  ground,  and  said,  "Who  art  thou  to  ques- 
tion me  what  I  do?  I  am  no  son  of  thine  to  do  thy  bid- 
ding." 

"Thou  speakest  truly,"  answered  the  Woodcutter,  "yet 


THE  STAR-CHILD  53 

did  I  show  thee  pity  when  I  found  thee  in  the  forest/* 

And  when  the  woman  heard  these  words  she  gave  a  loud 
cry,  and  fell  into  a  swoon.  And  the  Woodcutter  carried 
her  to  his  own  house,  and  his  wife  had  care  of  her,  and 
when  she  rose  up  from  the  swoon  into  which  she  had 
fallen,  they  set  meat  and  drink  before  her,  and  bade  her 
have  comfort. 

But  she  would  neither  eat  nor  drink,  but  said  to  the 
Woodcutter,  "Didst  thou  not  say  that  the  child  was  found 
in  the  forest?  And  was  it  not  ten  years  from  this  day?" 

And  the  Woodcutter  answered,  "Yea,  it  was  in  the  forest 
that  I  found  him,  and  it  is  ten  years  from  this  day.'7 

"And  what  signs  dist  thou  find  with  him?"  she  cried. 
"Bare  he  not  upon  his  neck  a  chain  of  amber?  Was  not 
round  him  a  cloak  of  gold  tissue  broidered  with  stars?" 

"Truly,"  answered  the  Woodcutter,  "it  was  even  as 
thou  sayest."  And  he  took  the  cloak  and  the  amber  chain 
from  the  chest  where  they  lay,  and  showed  them  to  her. 

And  when  she  saw  them  she  wept  for  joy,  and  said,  "He 
is  my  little  son  whom  I  lost  in  the  forest.  I  pray  thee 
send  for  him  quickly,  for  in  search  of  him  have  I  wandered 
over  the  whole  world." 

So  the  Woodcutter  and  his  wife  went  out  and  called  to 
the  Star-Child,  and  said  to  him,  "Go  into  the  house,  and 
there  shalt  thou  find  thy  mother,  who  is  waiting  for  thee." 

So  he  ran  in,  filled  with  wonder  and  great  gladness.  But 
when  he  saw  her  who  was  waiting  there,  he  laughed  scorn- 
fully and  said,  "Why  where  is  my  mother?  For  I  see  none 
here  but  this  vile  beggar-woman." 

And  the  woman  answered  him,  "I  am  thy  mother." 

"Thou  art  mad  to  say  so,"  cried  the  Star-Child  angrily. 
"I  am  no  son  of  thine,  for  thou  art  a  beggar,  and  ugly, 
and  in  rags.  Therefore  get  thee  hence,  and  let  me  see 
thy  foul  face  no  more." 

"Nay,  but  thou  art  indeed  my  little  son,  whom  I  bare 
in  the  forest,"  she  cried,  and  she  fell  on  her  knees,  and 
held  out  her  arms  to  him.  "The  robbers  stole  thee  from 
me,  and  left  thee  to  die,"  she  murmured,  "but  I  recog- 
nised thee  when  I  saw  thee,  and  the  signs  also  have  I  rec- 


54     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

ctgnised,  the  cloak  of  golden  tissue  and  the  amber  chain.1 
Therefore  I  pray  thee  come  with  me,  for  over  the  whole 
world  have  I  wandered  in  search  of  thee.  Come  with  me, 
my  son,  for  I  have  need  of  thy  love." 

But  the  Star-Child  stirred  not  from  his  place,  but  shut 
the  doors  of  his  heart  against  her,  nor  was  there  any 
sound  heard  save  the  sound  of  the  woman  weeping  for 
pain. 

And  at  last  he  spoke  to  her,  and  his  voice  was  hard 
and  bitter.  "If  in  very  truth  thou  art  my  mother,"  he" 
said,  "it  had  been  better  hadst  thou  stayed  away,  and  not 
come  here  to  bring  me  to  shame,  seeing  that  I  thought  I 
was  the  child  of  some  Star,  and  not  a  beggar's  child,  as  thou 
tellest  me  that  I  am.  Therefore  get  thee  hence,  and  let 
me  see  thee  no  more." 

"Alas!  my  son,"  she  cried,  "wilt  thou  not  kiss  me  before 
I  go?  For  I  have  suffered  much  to  find  thee." 

"Nay,"  said  the  Star-Child,  "but  thou  art  too  foul  to 
look  at,  and  rather  would  I  kiss  the  adder  or  the  toad  than 
thee." 

So  the  woman  rose  up  and  went  away  into  the  forest 
weeping  bitterly,  and  when  the  Star-Child  saw  that  she  had 
gone,  he  was  glad,  and  ran  back  to  his  playmates  that  he 
might  play  with  them. 

But  when  they  beheld  him  coming,  they  mocked  him  and 
said,  "Why,  thou  art  as  foul  as  the  toad,  and  as  loathsome 
as  the  adder.  Get  thee  hence,  for  we  will  not  suffer  thee 
to  play  with  us,"  and  they  drove  him  out  of  the  garden. 

And  the  Star-Child  frowned  and  said  to  himself,  "What  is 
this  that  they  say  to  me?  I  will  go  to  the  well  of 
water  and  look  into  it,  and  it  shall  tell  me  of  my  beauty." 

So  he  went  to  the  well  of  water  and  looked  into  it,  and 
lol  his  face  was  as  the  face  of  a  toad,  and  his  body  was 
scaled  like  an  adder.  And  he  flung  himself  down  on  the 
grass  and  wept,  and  said  to  himself,  "Surely  this  has  come 
upon  me  by  reason  of  my  sin.  For  I  have  denied  my 
mother,  and  driven  her  away,  and  been  proud  and  cruel 
to  her.  Wherefore  I  will  go  and  seek  her  through  the 
whole  world,  nor  will  I  rest  till  I  have  found  her." 


THE  STAR-CHILD  55 

And  there  came  to  him  the  little  daughter  of  the  Wood-* 
cutter,  and  she  put  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder  and  said, 
"What  doth  it  matter  if  thou  hast  lost  thy  comeliness? 
Stay  with  us,  and  I  will  not  mock  at  thee." 

And  he  said  to  her,  "Nay,  but  I  have  been  cruel  to  my 
mother,  and  as  a  punishment  has  this  evil  been  sent  to 
me.  "Wherefore  I  must  go  hence,  and  wander  through 
the  world  till  I  find  her,  and  she  give  me  her  forgive- 
ness." 

So  he  ran  away  into  the  forest  and  called  out  to  his 
mother  to  come  to  him,  but  there  Was  no  answer.  All  day 
long  he  called  to  her,  and  when  the  sun  set  he  lay  down 
to  sleep  on  a  bed  of  leaves  and  the  birds  and  the  animals 
fled  from  him,  for  they  remembered  his  cruelty,  and  he 
was  alone  save  for  the  toad  that  watched  him,  and  the 
slow  adder  that  crawled  past. 

And  in  the  morning  he  rose  up,  and  plucked  some  bitter 
berries  from  the  trees  and  ate  them,  and  took  his  way 
through  the  great  wood,  weeping  sorely.  And  of  every- 
thing that  he  met  he  made  inquiry  if  perchance  they  had 
seen  his  mother. 

He  said  to  the  Mole,  "Thou  canst  go  beneath  the  earth. 
Tell  me,  is  my  mother  there?'* 

And  the  Mole  answered,  "Thou  hast  blinded  mine  eyes. 
How  should  I  know?" 

He  said  to  the  Linnet,  "Thou  canst  fly  over  the  tops  of 
the  tall  trees,  and  canst  see  the  whole  world.  Tell  me, 
canst  thou  see  my  mother?" 

And  the  Linnet  answered,  "Thou  hast  dipt  my  wings 
for  thy  pleasure.  How  should  I  fly? 

And  to  the  little  Squirrel  who  lived  in  the  fir-tree,  and 
was  lonely,  he  said,  "Where  is  my  mother?" 

And  the  Squirrel  answered,  "Thou  hast  slain  mine.  Dost 
thou  seek  to  slay  thine  also?" 

And  the  Star- Child  wept  and  bowed  his  head,  and  prayed 
forgiveness  of  God's  things,  and  went  on  through  the  forest 
seeking  for  the  beggar-woman.  And  on  the  third  day  he 
came  to  the  other  side  of  the  forest  and  went  down  into  the 
plain. 


56     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

And  when  he  passed  through  the  villages  the  children 
mocked  him,  and  threw  stones  at  him,  and  the  carlots 
would  not  suffer  him  even  to  sleep  in  the  byres  lest  he 
might  bring  mildew  on  the  stored  corn,  so  foul  was  he 
to  look  at,  and  their  hired  men  drove  him  away,  and  there 
was  none  who  had  pity  on  him.  Nor  could  he  hear  any- 
where of  the  beggar-woman  who  was  his  mother,  though 
for  the  space  of  three  years  he  wandered  over  the  world, 
and  often  seemed  to  see  her  on  the  road  in  front  of  him, 
and  would  call  to  her,  and  run  after  her  till  the  sharp 
flints  made  his  feet  to  bleed.  But  overtake  her  he  could 
not,  and  those  who  dwelt  by  the  way  did  ever  deny  that 
they  had  seen  her,  or  any  like  to  her,  and  they  made  sport 
of  his  sorrow. 

For  the  space  of  three  years  he  wandered  over  the  world, 
and  in  the  world  there  was  neither  love  nor  loving-kindness 
nor  charity  for  him,  but  it  was  even  such  a  world  as  he 
had  made  for  himself  in  the  days  of  his  great  pride. 

And  one  evening  he  came  to  the  gate  of  a  strong-walled 
city  that  stood  by  a  river,  and,  weary  and  footsore  though 
he  was,  he  made  to  enter  in.  But  the  soldiers  who  stood 
on  guard  dropped  their  halberds  across  the  entrance,  and 
said  roughly  to  him,  "What  is  thy  business  in  the  city?" 

"I  am  seeking  for  my  mother,"  he  answered,  "and  I 
pray  ye  to  suffer  me  to  pass,  for  it  may  be  that  she  is  in 
this  city." 

But  they  mocked  at  him,  and  one  of  them  wagged  a  black 
beard,  and  set  down  his  shield  and  cried,  "Of  a  truth,  thy 
mother  will  not  be  merry  when  she  sees  thee,  for  thou  art 
more  ill-favoured  than  the  toad  of  the  marsh,  or  the  adder 
that  crawls  in  the  fen.  Get  thee  gone.  Thy  mother 
dwells  not  in  this  city." 

And  another,  who  held  a  yellow  banner  in  his  hand,  said 
to  him,  "Who  is  thy  mother,  and  wherefore  art  thou  seek- 
ing for  her?" 

And  he  answered,  "My  mother  is  a  beggar  even  as  I  am, 
and  I  have  treated  her  evilly,  and  I  pray  ye  to  suffer  me 
to  pass  that  she  may  give  me  her  forgiveness,  if  it  be 


THE  STAR-CHILD  57 

that  she  tarrieth  in  this  city."  But  they  would  not,  and 
pricked  him  with  their  spears. 

And,  as  he  turned  away  weeping,  one  whose  armour  was 
inlaid  with  gilt  flowers,  and  on  whose  helmet  crouched  a 
lion  that  had  wings,  came  up  and  made  inquiry  of  the 
soldiers  who  it  was  who  had  sought  entrance.  And  they  said 
to  him,  "It  is  a  beggar  and  the  child  of  a  beggar,  and  we 
have  driven  him  away." 

"Nay,"  he  cried,  laughing,  "but  we  will  sell  the  foul 
thing  for  a  slave,  and  his  price  shall  be  the  price  of  a 
bowl  of  sweet  wine." 

And  an  old  and  evil-visaged  man  who  was  passing  by 
called  out,  and  said,  "I  will  buy  him  for  that  price,"  and, 
when  he  had  paid  the  price,  he  took  the  Star-Child  by  the 
hand  and  led  him  into  the  city. 

And  after  they  had  gone  through  many  streets  they 
came  to  a  little  door  that  was  set  in  a  wall  that  was  covered 
with  a  pomegranate  tree.  And  the  old  man  touched  the 
door  with  a  ring  of  graved  jasper  and  it  opened,  and  they 
went  down  five  steps  of  brass  into  a  garden  filled  with 
black  poppies  and  green  jars  of  burnt  clay.  And  the  old 
man  took  then  from  his  turban  a  scarf  of  figured  silk,  and 
bound  with  it  the  eyes  of  the  Star-Child,  and  drove  him  in 
front  of  him.  And  when  the  scarf  was  taken  off  his  eyes, 
the  Star-Child  found  himself  in  a  dungeon,  that  was  lit 
by  a  lantern  of  horn. 

And  the  old  man  set  before  him  some  mouldy  bread  on 
a  trencher  and  said,  "Eat,"  and  some  brackish  water  in  a 
cup  and  said  "Drink,"  and  when  he  had  eaten  and  drunk, 
the  old  man  went  out,  locking  the  door  behind  him  and 
fastening  it  with  an  iron  chain. 

And  on  the  morrow  the  old  man,  who  was  indeed  the 
subtlest  of  the  magicians  of  Libya  and  had  learned  his 
art  from  one  who  dwelt  in  the  tombs  of  the  Nile,  came  in 
to  him  and  frowned  at  him,  and  said,  "In  a  wood  that  is 
nigh  to  the  gate  of  this  city  of  Giaours  there  are  three 
pieces  of  gold.  One  is  of  white  gold,  and  another  is  of  yel- 
low gold,  and  the  gold  of  the  third  one  is  red.  To-day 


58     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

thou  shalt  bring  me  the  piece  of  white  gold,  and  if  thou 
bringest  it  not  back,  I  will  beat  thee  with  a  hundred  stripes. 
Get  thee  away  quickly,  and  at  sunset  I  will  be  waiting 
for  thee  at  the  door  of  the  garden.  See  that  thou  bringest 
the  white  gold,  or  it  shall  go  ill  with  thee,  for  thou  art  my 
slave,  and  I  have  bought  thee  for  the  price  of  a  bowl  of 
sweet  wine."  And  he  bound  the  eyes  of  the  Star-Child 
with  the  scarf  of  figured  silk,  and  led  him  through  the 
house,  and  through  the  garden  of  poppies,  and  up  the  five 
steps  of  brass.  And  having  opened  the  little  door  with 
his  ring  he  set  him  in  the  street. 

And  the  Star-Child  went  out  of  the  gate  of  the  city,  and 
came  to  the  wood  of  which  the  Magician  had  spoken  to 
him. 

Now  this  wood  was  very  fair  to  look  at  from  without, 
and  seemed  full  of  singing  birds  and  of  sweet-scented  flow- 
ers, and  the  Star-Child  entered  it  gladly.  Yet  did  its 
beauty  profit  him  little,  for  wherever  he  went  harsh  briars 
and  thorns  shot  up  from  the  ground  and  encompassed  him, 
and  evil  nettles  stung  him,  and  the  thistle  pierced  him  with 
her  daggers,  so  that  he  was  in  sore  distress.  Nor  could 
he  find  anywhere  the  piece  of  white  gold  of  which  the 
Magician  had  spoken,  though  he  sought  for  it  from  morn 
to  noon,  and  from  noon  to  sunset.  And  at  sunset  he  set 
his  face  towards  home,  weeping  bitterly,  for  he  knew  what 
fate  was  in  store  for  him. 

But  when  he  had  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  wood,  he 
heard  from  a  thicket  a  cry  as  of  some  one  in  pain.  And 
forgetting  his  own  sorrow  he  ran  back  to  the  place,  and 
saw  there  a  little  Hare  caught  in  a  trap  that  some  hunter 
had  set  for  it. 

And  the  Star-Child  had  pity  on  it,  and  released  it,  and 
said  to  it,  "I  am  myself  but  a  slave,  yet  may  I  give  thee 
thy  freedom." 

And  the  Hare  answered  him,  and  said,  "Surely  thou  hast 
given  me  freedom,  and  what  shall  I  give  thee  in  return?" 

And  the  Star- Child  said  to  it,  "I  am  seeking  for  a  piece 
of  white  gold,  nor  can  I  anywhere  find  it,  and  if  I  bring 
it  not  to  my  master  he  will  beat  me." 


THE  STAR-CHILD  59 

"Come  thou  with  me,"  said  the  Hare,  "and  I  will  lead 
thee  to  it,  for  I  know  where  it  is  hidden,  and  for  what 
purpose." 

So  the  Star-Child  went  with  the  Hare,  and  lo!  in  the 
cleft  of  a  great  oak-tree  he  saw  the  piece  of  white  gold  that 
he  was  seeking.  And  he  was  filled  with  joy,  and  seized  it, 
and  said  to  the  Hare,  "The  service  that  I  did  to  thee  thou 
hast  rendered  back  again  many  times  over,  and  the  kind- 
ness that  I  showed  thee  thou  hast  repaid  a  hundred-fold." 

"Nay,"  answered  the  Hare,  "but  as  thou  dealt  with  me, 
so  I  did  deal  with  thee,"  and  it  ran  away  swiftly,  and  the 
Star-Child  went  towards  the  city. 

Now  at  the  gate  of  the  city  there  was  seated  one  who 
was  a  leper.  Over  his  face  hung  a  cowl  of  grey  linen,  and 
through  the  eyelets  his  eyes  gleamed  like  red  coals.  And 
when  he  saw  the  Star-Child  coming,  he  struck  upon  a 
wooden  bowl,  and  clattered  his  bell,  and  called  out  to  him, 
and  said,  "Give  me  a  piece  of  money,  or  I  must  die  of 
hunger.  For  they  have  thrust  me  out  of  the  city,  and 
there  is  no  one  who  has  pity  on  me." 

"Alas!"  cried  the  Star-Child,  "I  have  but  one  piece  of 
money  in  my  wallet,  and  if  I  bring  it  not  to  my  master  he 
will  beat  me,  for  I  am  his  slave." 

But  the  leper  entreated  him,  and  prayed  of  him,  till  the 
Star-Child  had  pity,  and  gave  him  the  piece  of  white  gold. 

And  when  he  came  to  the  Magician's  house,  the  Magician 
opened  to  him,  and  brought  him  in,  and  said  to  him, 
"Hast  thou  the  piece  of  white  gold?"  And  the  Star-Child 
answered,  "I  have  it  not."  So  the  Magician  fell  upon 
him,  and  beat  him,  and  set  before  him  an  empty  trencher, 
and  said  "Eat,"  and  an  empty  cup,  and  said  "Drink,"  and 
flung  him  again  into  the  dungeon. 

And  on  the  morrow  the  Magician  came  to  him,  and  said, 
"If  to-day  thou  bringest  me  not  the  piece  of  yellow  gold, 
I  will  surely  keep  thee  as  my  slave,  and  give  thee  three 
hundred  stripes." 

So  the  Star-Child  went  to  the  wood,  and  all  day  long 
he  searched  for  the  piece  of  yellow  gold,  but  nowhere  could 
he  find  it.  And  at  sunset  he  sat  him  down  and  began  to 


60     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

weep,  and  as  he  was  v/eeping  there  came  to  him  the  little 
Hare  that  he  had  rescued  from  the  trap. 

And  the  Hare  said  to  him,  "'Why  art  them  weeping? 
And  what  dost  thou  seek  in  the  wood?" 

And  the  Star-Child  answered,  "I  am  seeking  for  a  piece 
of  yellow  gold  that  is  hidden  here,  and  if  I  find  it  not  my 
master  will  beat  me,  and  keep  me  as  a  slave." 

"Follow  me,"  cried  the  Hare,  and  it  ran  through  the  wood 
till  it  came  to  a  pool  of  water.  And  at  the  bottom  of  the 
pool  the  piece  of  yellow  gold  was  lying. 

"How  shall  I  thank  thee?"  said  the  Star-Child,  "for  lo! 
this  is  the  second  time  that  you  have  succoured  me." 

"Nay,  but  thou  hadst  pity  on  me  first,"  said  the  Hare, 
and  it  ran  away  swiftly. 

And  the  Star-Child  took  the  piece  of  yellow  gold,  and 
put  it  in  his  %vallet,  and  hurried  to  the  city.  But  the  leper 
saw  him  coming,  and  ran  to  meet  him,  and  knelt  down  and 
cried,  "Give  me  a  piece  of  money  or  I  shall  die  of  hunger." 

And  the  Star-Child  said  to  him,  "I  have  in  my  wallet 
but  one  piece  of  yellow  gold,  and  if  I  bring  it  not  to  my 
master  he  will  beat  me  and  keep  me  as  his  slave." 

But  the  leper  entreated  him  sore,  so  that  the  Star-Child 
had  pity  on  him,  and  gave  him  the  piece  of  yellow  gold. 

And  when  he  came  to  the  Magician's  house,  the  Magician 
opened  to  him,  and  brought  him  in,  and  said  to  him,  "Hast 
thou  the  piece  of  yellow  gold?"  And  the  Star-Child  said  to 
him,  "I  have  it  not."  So  the  Magician  fell  upon  him,  and 
beat  him,  and  loaded  him  with  chains,  and  cast  him  again 
into  the  dungeon. 

And  on  the  morrow  the  Magician  came  to  him,  and  said, 
"If  to-day  thou  bringest  me  the  piece  of  red  gold  I  will  set 
thee  free,  but  if  thou  bringest  it  not  I  will  surely  slay 
thee." 

So  the  Star-Child  went  to  the  wood,  and  all  day  long 
he  searched  for  the  piece  of  red  gold,  but  nowhere  could 
he  find  it.  And  at  evening  he  sat  him  down  and  wept, 
and  as  he  was  weeping  there  came  to  him  the  little  Hare. 

And  the  Hare  said  to  him,  "The  piece  of  red  gold  that 


THE  STAR-CHILD  61 

thou  seekest  is  in  the  cavern  that  is  behind  thee.    There- 
fore weep  no  more,  but  be  glad." 

"How  shall  I  reward  thee?"  cried  the  Star-Child,  "for 
lol  this  is  the  third  time  thou  hast  succoured  me." 

"Nay,  but  thou  hadst  pity  on  me  first,"  said  the  Hare, 
and  it  ran  away  swiftly. 

And  the  Star-Child  entered  the  cavern,  and  in  its  farthest 
corner  he  found  the  piece  of  red  gold.  So  he  put  it  in 
his  wallet,  and  hurried  to  the  city.  And  the  leper  seeing 
him  coming,  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  road  and  cried  out, 
and  said  to  him,  "Give  me  the  piece  of  red  money,  or  I 
must  die,"  and  the  Star-Child  had  pity  on  him  again,  and 
gave  him  the  piece  of  red  gold,  saying,  "Thy  need  is  greater 
than  mine."  Yet  was  his  heart  heavy,  for  he  knew  what 
evil  fate  awaited  him. 

I 

But  lo!  as  he  passed  through  the  gate  of  the  city,  the 
guards  bowed  down  and  made  obeisance  to  him,  saying, 
"How  beautiful  is  our  lord!"  and  a  crowd  of  citizens  fol- 
lowed him,  and  cried  out,  "Surely  there  is  none  so  beautiful 
in  the  whole  world!"  so  that  the  Star-Child  wept,  and  said 
to  himself,  "They  are  mocking  me,  and  making  light  of 
my  misery."  And  so  large  was  the  concourse  of  the  people, 
that  he  lost  the  threads  of  his  way,  and  found  himself  at 
last  in  a  great  square,  in  which  there  was  a  palace  of  a  King. 

And  the  gate  of  the  palace  opened,  and  the  priests  and 
the  high  officers  of  the  city  ran  forth  to  meet  him,  and  they 
abased  themselves  before  him,  and  said,  "Thou  art  our 
lord  for  whom  we  have  been  waiting,  and  the  son  of  our 
King." 

And  the  Star-Child  answered  them  and  said,  "I  am  no 
king's  son,  but  the  child  of  a  poor  beggar-woman.  And 
how  say  ye  that  I  am  beautiful,  for  I  know  that  I  am  evil 
to  look  at?" 

Then  he  whose  armour  was  inlaid  with  gilt  flowers,  and 
on  whose  helmet  crouched  a  lion  that  had  wings,  held  up 
a  shield,  and  cried,  "How  saith  my  lord  that  he  is  not 
beautiful?" 

And  the  Star-Child  looked,  and  lo!  his  face  was  even 


62     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

as  it  had  been,  and  his  comeliness  had  come  back  to  him, 
and  he  saw  that  in  his  eyes  which  he  had  not  seen  there 
before. 

And  the  priests  and  the  high  officers  knelt  down  and  said 
to  him,  "It  was  prophesied  of  old  that  on  this  day  should 
come  he  who  was  to  rule  over  us.  Therefore,  let  our  lord 
take  this  crown  and  this  sceptre,  and  be  in  his  justice  and 
mercy  our  King  over  us." 

But  he  said  to  them,  "I  am  not  worthy,  for  I  have  denied 
the  mother  who  bare  me,  nor  may  I  rest  till  I  have  found 
her,  and  known  her  forgiveness.  Therefore,  let  me  go,  for 
I  must  wander  again  over  the  world,  and  may  not  tarry 
here,  though  ye  bring  me  the  crown  and  the  sceptre."  And 
as  he  spake  he  turned  his  face  from  them  towards  the  street 
that  led  to  the  gate  of  the  city,  and  lo!  amongst  the  crowd 
that  pressed  round  the  soldiers,  he  saw  the  beggar-woman 
who  was  his  mother,  and  at  her  side  stood  the  leper  who 
had  sat  by  the  road. 

And  a  cry  of  joy  broke  from  his  lips,  and  he  ran  over, 
and  kneeling  down  he  kissed  the  wounds  on  his  mother's 
feet,  and  wet  them  with  his  tears.  He  bowed  his  head  in 
the  dust,  and  sobbing,  as  one  whose  heart  might  break, 
he  said  to  her,  "Mother,  I  denied  thee  in  the  hour  of  my 
pride.  Accept  me  in  the  hour  of  my  humility.  Mother,  I 
gave  thee  hatred.  Do  thou  give  me  love.  Mother,  I  re- 
jected thee.  Receive  thy  child  now."  But  the  beggar- 
woman  answered  him  not  a  word. 

And  he  reached  out  his  hands  and  clasped  the  white  feet 
of  the  leper,  and  said  to  him,  "Thrice  did  I  give  thee  of 
my  mercy.  Bid  my  mother  speak  to  me  once."  But  the 
leper  answered  him  not  a  word. 

And  he  sobbed  again  and  said,  "Mother,  my  suffering 
is  greater  than  I  can  bear.  Give  me  thy  forgiveness,  and 
let  me  go  back  to  the  forest."  And  the  beggar-woman  put 
her  hand  on  his  head,  and  said  to  him,  "Rise,"  and  the 
leper  put  his  hand  on  his  head,  and  said  to  him,  "Rise," 
also. 

And  he  rose  up  from  his  feet,  and  looked  at  them,  and 
lo!  they  were  a  King  and  a  Queen. 


THE  STAR-CHILD  63 

And  the  Queen  said  to  him,  "This  is  thy  father  whom 
thou  hast  succoured." 

And  the  King  said,  "This  is  thy  mother  whose  feet  thou 
hast  washed  with  thy  tears." 

And  they  fell  on  his  neck  and  kissed  him,  and  brought 
him  into  the  palace  and  clothed  him  in  fair  raiment,  and 
set  the  crown  upon  his  head,  and  the  sceptre  in  his  hand, 
and  over  the  city  that  stood  by  the  river  he  ruled,  and  was 
its  lord.  Much  justice  and  mercy  did  he  show  to  all,  and 
the  evil  Magician  he  banished,  and  to  the  Woodcutter  and 
his  wife  he  sent  many  rich  gifts,  and  to  their  children  he 
gave  high  honour.  Nor  would  he  suffer  any  to  be  cruel  to 
bird  or  beast,  but  taught  love  and  loving-kindness  and 
charity,  and  to  the  poor  he  gave  bread,  and  to  the  naked 
he  gave  raiment,  and  there  was  peace  and  plenty  in  the 
land. 

Yet  ruled  he  not  long,  so  great  had  been  his  suffering, 
and  so  bitter  the  fire  of  his  testing,  for  after  the  space  of 
three  years  he  died.  And  he  who  came  after  him  ruled 
evilly. 


THE  DYING  OF  FRANCIS  DONNE 

A  Study 

BY  ERNEST  DOWSON 
'Memento  homo,  quia  pulvis  es  et  in  pulverem  reverteris." 


HE  had  lived  so  long  in  the  meditation  of  death,  visited 
it  so  often  in  others,  studied  it  with  such  persistency, 
with  a  sentiment  in  which  horror  and  fascination 
mingled;  but  it  had  always  been,  as  it  were,  an  objective, 
alien  fact,  remote  from  himself  and  his  own  life.  So  that 
it  was  in  a  sudden  flash,  quite  too  stupefying  to  admit  in 
the  first  instance  of  terror,  that  knowledge  of  his  mortality 
dawned  on  him.  There  was  absurdity  in  the  idea  too. 

"I,  Francis  Donne,  thirty-five  and  some  months  old,  am 
going  to  die,'7  he  said  to  himself;  and  fantastically  he 
looked  at  his  image  in  the  glass,  and  sought,  but  quite 
vainly,  to  find  some  change  in  it  which  should  account  for 
this  incongruity,  just  as,  searching  in  his  analytical  habit 
into  the  recesses  of  his  own  mind,  he  could  find  no  such 
alteration  of  his  inner  consciousness  as  would  explain  or 
justify  his  plain  conviction.  And  quickly,  with  reason  and 
casuistry,  he  sought  to  rebut  that  conviction. 

The  quickness  of  his  mind — it  had  never  seemed  to  him 
so  nimble,  so  exquisite  a  mechanism  of  syllogism  and  de- 
duction— was  contraposed  against  his  blind  instinct  of  the 
would-be  self-deceiver,  in  a  conflict  to  which  the  latter 
brought  something  of  desperation,  the  fierce,  agonized  des- 
peration of  a  hunted  animal  at  bay.  But  piece  by  piece 
the  chain  of  evidence  was  strengthened.  That  subtile  and 
agile  mind  of  his,  with  its  special  knowledge,  cut  clean 
through  the  shrinking  protests  of  instinct,  removing  them 

64 


THE  DYING  OF  FRANCIS  DONNE  65 

as  surely  and  as  remorselessly,  he  reflected  in  the  image 
most  natural  to  him,  as  the  keen  blade  of  his  surgical  knives 
had  removed  malignant  ulcers. 

"I,  Francis  Donrie,  am  going  to  die,"  he  repeated,  and, 
presently,  "/  am  going  to  die  soon;  in  a  few  months,  in  six 
perhaps,  certainly  in  a  year." 

Once  more,  curiously,  but  this  time  with  a  sense  of  neu- 
trality, as  he  had  often  diagnosed  a  patient,  he  turned  to 
the  mirror.  Was  it  his  fancy,  or,  perhaps,  only  for  the 
vague  light  that  he  seemed  to  discover  a  strange  grey  tone 
about  his  face? 

But  he  had  always  been  a  man  of  a  very  sallow  com- 
plexion. 

There  were  a  great  many  little  lines,  like  pen-scratches, 
scarring  the  parchment-like  skin  beneath  the  keen  eyes: 
doubtless,  of  late,  these  had  multiplied,  become  more  notice- 
able, even  when  his  face  was  in  repose. 

But,  of  late,  what  with  his  growing  practice,  his  lectures, 
his  writing;  all  the  unceasing  labour,  which  his  ambitions 
entailed,  might  well  have  afled  him  somewhat.  That  dull, 
immutable  pain,  which  had  first  directed  his  attention  from 
his  studies,  his  investigatons,  his  profession,  to  his  corporal 
self,  the  actual  Francis  Donne,  that  pain  which  he  would 
so  gladly  have  called  inexplicable,  but  could  explain  so 
precisely,  had  ceased  for  the  moment.  Nerves,  fancies! 
How  long  it  was  since  he  had  taken  any  rest !  He  had  often 
intended  to  give  himself  holiday,  but  something  had  always 
intervened.  But  he  would  do  so  now,  yes,  almost  imme- 
diately; a  long,  long  holiday — he  would  grudge  nothing — 
somewhere  quite  out  of  the  way,  somewhere,  where  there 
was  fishing;  in  Wales,  or  perhaps  in  Brittany;  that  would 
surely  set  him  right. 

And  even  while  he  promised  himself  this  necessary  relaxa- 
tion in  the  immediate  future,  as  he  started  on  his  after- 
noon round,  in  the  background  of  his  mind  there  lurked 
the  knowledge  of  its  futility;  rest,  relaxation,  all  that,  at 
this  date  was,  as  it  were,  some  tardy  sacrifice,  almost  hypo- 
critical, which  he  offered  to  powers  who  might  not  be  pro- 
pitiated. 


66     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

Once  in  his  neat  brougham,  the  dull  pain  began  again; 
but  by  an  effort  of  will  he  put  it  away  from  him.  In  the 
brief  interval  from  house  to  house — he  had  some  dozen 
visits  to  make — he  occupied  himself  •with  a  medical  paper, 
glanced  at  the  notes  of  a  lecture  he  was  giving  that  evening 
at  a  certain  Institute  on  the  "Limitations  of  Medicine." 

He  was  late,  very  late  for  dinner,  and  his  man,  Brom- 
grove,  greeted  him  with  a  certain  reproachfulness,  in  which 
he  traced,  or  seemed  to  trace,  a  half-patronizing  sense  of 
pity.  He  reminded  himself  that  on  more  than  one  occa- 
sion, of  late,  Bromgrove's  manner  had  perplexed  him.  He 
was  glad  to  rebuke  the  man  irritably  on  some  pretext,  to 
dismiss  him  from  the  room,  and  he  hurried,  without  appe- 
tite, through  the  cold  or  overdone  food  which  was  the 
reward  of  his  tardiness. 

His  lecture  over,  he  drove  out  to  South  Kensington,  to 
attend  a  reception  at  the  house  of  a  great  man — great  not 
only  in  the  scientific  world,  but  also  in  the  world  of  letters. 
There  was  some  of  the  excitement  of  success  in  his  eyes  as 
he  made  his  way,  with  smiles  and  bows,  in  acknowledgment 
of  many  compliments,  through  the  crowded  rooms.  For 
Francis  Donne's  lectures — those  of  them  which  were  not 
entirely  for  the  initiated — had  grown  into  the  importance 
of  a  social  function.  They  had  almost  succeeded  in  mak- 
ing science  fashionable,  clothing  its  dry  bones  in  a  garment 
of  so  elegantly  literary  a  pattern.  But  even  in  the  ranks  of 
the  profession  it  was  only  the  envious,  the  unsuccessful, 
who  ventured  to  say  that  Donne  had  sacrificed  doctrine  to 
popularity,  that  his  science  was,  in  their  contemptuous 
parlance,  "mere  literature." 

Yes,  he  had  been  very  successful,  as  the  world  counts 
success,  and  his  consciousness  of  this  fact,  and  the  influence 
of  the  lights,  the  crowd,  the  voices,  was  like  absinthe  on 
his  tired  spirit.  He  had  forgotten,  or  thought  he  had  for- 
gotten, the  phantom  of  the  last  few  days,  the  phantom 
which  was  surely  waiting  for  him  at  home. 

But  he  was  reminded  by  a  certain  piece  of  news  which 
late  in  the  evening  fluttered  the  now  diminished  assembly: 
the  quite  sudden  death  of  an  eminent  surgeon,  expected 


THE  DYING  OF  FRANCIS  DONNE  67 

there  that  night,  an  acquaintance  of  his  own,  and  more  or 
less  of  each  one  of  the  little,  intimate  group  which  tarried 
to  discuss  it.  With  sympathy,  with  a  certain  awe,  they 
spoke  of  him,  Donne  and  the  others;  and  both  the  awe  and 
the  sympathy  were  genuine. 

But  as  he  drove  home,  leaning  back  in  his  carriage,  in  a 
discouragement,  in  a  lethargy,  which  was  only  partly  due 
to  physical  reaction,  he  saw  visibly  underneath  their  regret 
— theirs  and  his  own — the  triumphant  assertion  of  life,  the 
egoism  of  instinct.  They  were  sorry,  but  oh,  they  were 
glad!  royally  glad,  that  it  was  another,  and  not  they  them- 
selves whom  something  mysterious  had  of  a  sudden 
snatched  away  from  his  busy  career,  his  interests,  perhaps 
from  all  intelligence;  at  least,  from  all  the  pleasant  sensu- 
ousness  of  life,  the  joy  of  the  visible  world,  into  darkness. 
And  he  knew  the  sentiment,  and  honestly  dared  not  blame 
it.  How  many  times  had  not  he,  Francis  Donne  himself, 
experienced  it,  that  egoistic  assertion  of  life  in  the  presence 
of  the  dead — the  poor,  irremediable  dead?.  .  .  And  now, 
he  was  only  good  to  give  it  to  others. 

Latterly,  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  subduing  sleep- 
lessness with  injections  of  morphia,  indeed  in  infinitesimal 
quantities.  But  to-night,  although  he  was  more  than  usu- 
ally restless  and  awake,  by  a  strong  effort  of  reasonableness 
he  resisted  his  impulse  to  take  out  the  little  syringe.  The 
pain  was  at  hin)  again  with  the  same  dull  and  stupid  in- 
sistence; in  its  monotony,  losing  some  of  the  nature  of 
pain  and  becoming  a  mere  nervous  irritation.  But  he  was 
aware  that  it  would  not  continue  like  that.  Daily,  almost 
hourly,  it  would  gather  strength  and  cruelty;  the  moments 
of  respite  from  it  would  become  rarer,  would  cease.  From 
a  dull  pain  it  would  become  an  acute  pain,  and  then  a  tor- 
ture, and  then  an  agony,  and  then  a  madness.  And  in 
those  last  days,  what  peace  might  be  his  would  be  the 
•>eace  of  morphia,  so  that  it  was  essential  that,  for  the 
noment,  he  should  not  abuse  the  drug. 

And  as  he  knew  that  sleep  was  far  away  from  him,  he 
propped  himself  up  with  two  pillows,  and  by  the  light  of  a 
strong  reading-lamp  settled  himself  to  read.  He  had  se- 


68     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

lected  the  work  of  a  distinguished  German  savant  upon  the 
cardial  functions,  and  a  short  treatise  of  his  own,  which 
was  covered  with  recent  annotations,  in  his  crabbed  hand- 
writing, upon  "Aneurism  of  the  Heart."  He  read  avidly, 
and  against  his  own  deductions,  once  more  his  instinct 
raised  a  vain  protest.  At  last  he  threw  the  volumes  aside, 
and  lay,  with  his  eyes  shut,  without,  however,  extinguishing 
the  light.  A  terrible  sense  of  helplessness  overwhelmed 
him;  he  was  seized  with  an  immense  and  heart-breaking 
pity  for  poor  humanity  as  personified  in  himself;  and,  for 
the  first  time  since  he  had  ceased  to  be  a  child,  he  shed 
puerile  tears. 

II 

The  faces  of  his  acquaintance,  the  faces  of  the  students 
at  his  lectures,  the  faces  of  Francis  Donne's  colleagues  at 
the  hospital,  were  altered ;  were,  at  least,  sensibly  altered  to 
his  morbid  self-consciousness.  In  every  one  whom  he  en- 
countered, he  detected,  or  fancied  that  he  detected,  an  atti- 
tude of  evasion,  a  hypocritical  air  of  ignoring  a  iact  that 
was  obvious  and  unpleasant.  Was  it  so  obvious,  then,  the 
hidden  horror  which  he  carried  incessantly  about  with  him? 
Was  his  secret,  which  he  would  still  guard  so  jealously,  be- 
come a  byword  and  an  anecdote  in  his  little  world?  And 
a  great  rage  consumed  him  against  the  inexorable  and  in- 
scrutable forces  which  had  made  him  to  destroy  him; 
against  himself,  because  of  his  proper  impotence;  and, 
above  all,  against  the  living,  the  millions  who  would  re- 
main when  he  was  no  longer,  the  living,  of  whom  many 
would  regret  him  (some  of  them  his  personality,  and  more, 
his  skill),  because  he  could  see  under  all  the  unconscious 
hypocrisy  of  their  sorrow,  the  exultant  self-satisfaction  of 
their  survival. 

And  with  his  burning  sense  of  helplessness,  of  a  certain 
bitter  injustice  in  things,  a  sense  of  shame  mingled;  all  the 
merely  physical  dishonour  of  death  shaping  itself  to  his  sick 
and  morbid  fancy  into  a  violent  symbol  of  what  was,  as  it 
were,  an  actually  moral  or  intellectual  dishonour.  Was  not 


THE  DYING  OF  FRANCIS  DONNE  60 


death,  too,  inevitable  and  natural  an  operation  as  it 
essentially  a  process  to  undergo  apart  and  hide  jealously,  as 
much  as  other  natural  and  ignoble  processes  of  the  body? 

And  the  animal,  who  steals  away  to  an  uttermost  place 
hi  the  forest,  who  gives  up  his  breath  in  a  solitude  and 
hides  his  dying  like  a  shameful  thing,  —  might  he  not  offer 
an  example  that  it  would  be  well  for  the  dignity  of  poor 
humanity  to  follow? 

Since  Death  is  coming  to  me,  said  Francis  Donne  to 
himself,  let  me  meet  it,  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land,  with 
only  strange  faces  round  me  and  the  kind  indifference  of 
strangers,  instead  of  the  intolerable  pity  of  friends. 

Ill 

On  the  bleak  and  wave-tormented  coast  of  Finistere, 
somewhere  between  Quiberon  and  Fouesnant,  he  reminded 
himself  of  a  little  fishing-village:  a  few  scattered  houses 
(one  of  them  being  an  auberge  at  which  ten  years  ago  he 
had  spent  a  night),  collected  round  a  poor  little  grey 
church.  Thither  Francis  Donne  went,  without  leave-tak- 
ings or  explanation,  almost  secretly,  giving  but  the  vaguest 
indications  of  the  length  or  direction  of  his  absence.  And 
there  for  many  days  he  dwelt,  in  the  cottage  which  he 
had  hired,  with  one  old  Breton  woman  for  his  sole  atten- 
dant, in  a  state  of  mind  which,  after  all  the  years  of  energy, 
of  ambitious  labour,  was  almost  peace. 

Bleak  and  grey  it  had  been,  when  he  had  visited  it  of 
old,  in  the  late  autumn;  but  now  the  character,  the  whole 
colour  of  the  country  was  changed.  It  was  brilliant  with 
the  promise  of  summer,  and  the  blue  Atlantic,  which  in 
winter  churned  with  its  long  crested  waves  so  boisterously 
below  the  little  white  light-house,  which  warned  mariners 
(alas!  so  vainly),  against  the  shark-like  cruelty  of  the  rocks, 
now  danced  anH  glittered  in  the  sunshine,  rippled  with 
feline  caresses  round  the  hulls  of  the  fishing-boats  whose 
brown  sails  floated  so  idly  in  the  faint  air. 

Above  the  village,  on  a  grassy  slope,  whose  green  was 
almost  lurid,  Francis  Donne  lay,  for  many  silent  hours,  look- 


70    THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

ing  out  at  the  placid  sea,  which  could  yet  be  so  ferocious, 
at  the  low  violet  line  of  the  Island  of  Groix,  which  alone 
interrupted  the  monotony  of  sky  and  ocean. 

He  had  brought  many  books  with  him  but  he  read  in 
them  rarely;  and  when  physical  pain  gave  him  a  respite  for 
thought,  he  thought  almost  of  nothing.  His  thought  was 
for  a  long  time  a  lethargy  and  a  blank. 

Now  and  again  he  spoke  with  some  of  the  inhabitants. 
They  were  a  poor  and  hardy,  but  a  kindly  race:  fishers  and 
the  wives  of  fishers,  whose  children  would  grow  up  and 
become  fishermen  and  the  wives  of  fishermen  in  their  turn. 
Most  of  them  had  wrestled  with  death;  it  was  always  so 
near  to  them  that  hardly  one  of  them  feared^  it ;  they  were 
fatalists,  with  the  grim  and  resigned  fatalism  of  the  poor, 
of  the  poor  who  live  with  the  treachery  of  the  sea. 

Francis  Donne  visited  the  little  cemetery,  and  counted 
the  innumerable  crosses  which  testified  to  the  havoc  which 
the  sea  had  wrought.  Some  of  the  graves  were  nameless; 
holding  the  bodies  of  strange  seamen  which  the  waves  had 
tossed  ashore. 

"And  in  a  little  time  I  shall  lie  here,"  he  said  to  him- 
self; "and  here  as  well  as  elsewhere,"  he  added  with  a 
shrug,  assuming,  and,  for  once,  almost  sincerely,  the  stoi- 
cism of  his  surroundings,  "and  as  lief  to-day  as  to-morrow." 

On  the  whole,  the  days  were  placid ;  there  were  even  mo- 
ments when,  as  though  he  had  actually  drunk  in  renewed 
vigour  from  that  salt  sea  air,  the  creative  force  of  the  sun, 
he  was  tempted  to  doubt  his  grievous  knowledge,  to  make 
fresh  plans  of  life.  But  these  were  fleeting  moments,  and 
the  reaction  from  them  was  terrible.  Each  day  his  hold 
on  life  was  visibly  more  slender,  and  the  people  of  the 
village  saw,  and  with  a  rough  sympathy,  which  did  not 
offend  him,  allowed  him  to  perceive  that  they  saw,  the 
rapid  growth  and  the  inevitableness  of  his  end. 

IV 

But  if  the  days  were  not  without  their  pleasantness,  the 
nights  were  always  horrible — a  torture  of  the  body  and  an 


THE  DYING  OF  FRANCIS  DONNE  71 

agony  of  the  spirit.  Sleep  was  far  away,  and  the  brain, 
which  had  been  lulled  till  the  evening,  would  awake,  would 
grow  electric  with  life  and  take  strange  and  abominable 
flights  into  the  darkness  of  the  pit,  into  the  black  night  of 
the  unknowable  and  the  unknown. 

And  interminably,  during  those  nights  which  seemed 
eternity,  Francis  Donne  questioned  and  examined  into  the 
nature  of  that  Thing,  which  stood,  a  hooded  figure  besidfc 
his  bed,  with  a  menacing  hand  raised  to  beckon  him  so 
peremptorily  from  all  that  lay  within  his  consciousness. 

He  had  been  all  his  life  absorbed  in  science;  he  had  dis- 
sected, how  many  bodies?  and  in  what  anatomy  had  he  ever 
found  a  soul?  Yet  if  his  avocations,  his  absorbing  interest 
in  physical  phenomena  had  made  him  somewhat  a  mate- 
rialist, it  had  been  almost  without  his  consciousness.  The 
sensible,  visible  world  of  matter  had  loomed  so  large  to 
him,  that  merely  to  know  that  had  seemed  to  him  suffi- 
cient. All  that  might  conceivably  lie  outside  it,  he  had, 
without  negation,  been  content  to  regard  as  outside  his 
province. 

And  now,  in  his  weakness,  in  the  imminence  of  approach- 
ing dissolution,  his  purely  physical  knowledge  seemed  but 
a  vain  possession,  and  he  turned  with  a  passionate  interest 
to  what  had  been  said  and  believed  from  time  immemorial 
by  those  who  had  concentrated  their  intelligence  on  that 
strange  essence,  which  might  after  all  be  the  essence  of 
one's  personality,  which  might  be  that  sublimated  con- 
sciousness— the  Soul — actually  surviving  the  infamy  of  the 
grave? 

Animula,  vagula,  blandula! 

Hospes  comesque  corporis, 

Quse  nunc  abibis  in  loca? 

Pallidula,  rigida,  nudula. 

Ah,  the  question!  It  was  an  harmony,  perhaps  (as,  who 
had  maintained?  whom  the  Platonic  Socrates  in  the 
"Phaedo"  had  not  too  successfully  refuted),  an  harmony  of 
life,  which  was  dissolved  when  life  was  over?  Or,  perhaps, 
as  how  many  metaphysicians  had  held  both  before  and 
after  a  sudden  great  hope,  perhaps  too  generous  to  be  true, 


72     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

had  changed  and  illuminated,  to  countless  millions,  the  in- 
exorable figure  of  Death — a  principle,  indeed,  immortal, 
which  came  and  went,  passing  through  many  corporal  con- 
ditions until  it  was  ultimately  resolved  into  the  great  mind, 
pervading  all  things?  Perhaps?  .  .  .  But  what  scanty 
consolation,  in  all  such  theories,  to  the  poor  body,  racked 
with  pain  and  craving  peace,  to  the  tortured  spirit  of  self- 
consciousness  so  achingly  anxious  not  to  be  lost. 

And  he  turned  from  these  speculations  to  what  was,  after 
all,  a  possibility  like  the  others;  the  faith  of  the  simple,  of 
these  fishers  with  whom  he  lived,  which  was  also  the  faith 
of  his  own  childhood,  which,  indeed,  he  had  never  repudi- 
ated, whose  practices  he  had  simply  discarded,  as  one  dis- 
cards puerile  garments  when  one  comes  to  man's  estate. 
And  he  remembered,  with  the  vividness  with  which,  in 
moments  of  great  anguish,  one  remembers  things  long  ago 
familiar,  forgotten  though  they  may  have  been  for  years, 
the  triumphant  declarations  of  the  Church: 

"Omnes  quidem  resurgemus,  sed  non  omnes  immuta- 
bimur.  In  moment  o,  in  ictu  oculi,  in  novissima  tuba:  canet 
enim  tuba:  et  mortui  resurgent  incorrupti,  et  nos  immuta- 
bimur.  Oportet  enim  corruptibUe  hoc  induere  immortali- 
tatem.  Cum  autem  mortale  hoc  induerit  immortalitatem 
tune  fiet  sermo  qui  scriptus  est:  Absorpta  est  mors  in  vic- 
toria. Ubi  est,  mors,  victoria  tua?  Ubi  est,  mors,  stimulus 
tuus?" 

Ah,  for  the  certitude  of  that!  of  that  victorious  confuta- 
tion of  the  apparent  destruction  of  sense  and  spirit  in  a 
common  ruin.  .  .  .  But  it  was  a  possibility  like  the  rest; 
and  had  it  not  more  need  than  the  rest  to  be  more  than 
a  possibility,  if  it  would  be  a  consolation,  in  that  it  prom- 
ised more?  And  he  gave  it  up,  turning  his  face  to  the 
wall,  lay  very  still,  imagining  himself  already  stark  and 
cold,  his  eyes  closed,  his  jaw  closely  tied  (lest  the  ignoble 
changes  which  had  come  to  him  should  be  too  ignoble), 
while  he  waited  until  the  narrow  boards,  within  which  he 
should  lie,  had  been  nailed  together,  and  the  bearers  were 
ready  to  convey  him  into  the  corruption  which  was  to  be 
his  part. 


THE  DYING  OF  FRANCIS  DONNE  73 

And  as  the  window-pane  grew  light  with  morning,  he 
sank  into  a  drugged,  unrestful  sleep,  from  which  he  would 
awake  some  hours  later  with  eyes  more  sunken  and  more 
haggard  cheeks.  And  that  was  the  pattern  of  many  nights. 


One  day  he  seemed  to  wake  from  a  night  longer  and  more 
troubled  than  usual,  a  night  which  had,  perhaps,  been  many 
nights  and  days,  perhaps  even  weeks;  a  night  of  an  ever- 
increasing  agony,  in  which  he  was  only  dimly  conscious  at 
rare  intervals  of  what  was  happening,  or  of  the  figures  com- 
ing and  going  around  his  bed:  the  doctor  from  a  neighbour- 
ing town,  who  had  stayed  by  him  unceasingly,  easing  his 
paroxysms  with  the  little  merciful  syringe;  the  soft,  prac- 
tised hands  of  a  sister  of  charity  about  his  pillow;  even  the 
face  of  Bromgrove,  for  whom  doubtless  he  had  sent,  when 
he  had  foreseen  the  utter  helplessness  which  was  at  hand. 

He  opened  his  eyes,  and  seemed  to  discern  a  few  blurred 
figures  against  the  darkness  of  the  closed  shutters  through 
which  one  broad  ray  filtered  in;  but  he  could  not  distin- 
guish their  faces,  and  he  closed  his  eyes  once  more.  An 
immense  and  ineffable  tiredness  had  come  over  him,  but  the 
pain — oh,  miracle!  had  ceased.  .  .  .  And  it  suddenly 
flashed  over  him  that  this — this  was  Death;  this  was  the 
thing  against  which  he  had  cried  and  revolted;  the  horror 
from  which  he  would  have  escaped;  this  utter  luxury  of 
physical  exhaustion,  this  calm,  this  release. 

The  corporal  capacity  of  smiling  had  passed  from  him, 
but  he  would  fain  have  smiled. 

And  for  a  few  minutes  of  singular  mental  lucidity,  all 
his  life  flashed  before  him  in  a  new  relief;  his  childhood, 
his  adolescence,  the  people  whom  he  had  known;  his 
mother,  who  had  died  when  he  was  a  boy,  of  a  malady  from 
which,  perhaps,  a  few  years  later,  his  skill  had  saved  her; 
the  friend  of  his  youth  who  had  shot  himself  for  so  little 
reason;  the  girl  whom  he  had  loved,  but  who  had  not  loved 
him.  .  .  .  All  that  was  distorted  in  life  was  adjusted  and 
justified  in  the  light  of  his  sudden  knowledge.  Beati  mor- 


74     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

tui  .  .  .  and  then  the  great  tiredness  swept  over  him  once 
more,  and  a  fainter  consciousness,  in  which  he  could  yet  just 
dimly  hear,  as  in  a  dream,  the  sound  of  Latin  prayers,  and 
feel  the  application  of  the  oils  upon  all  the  issues  and  ap- 
proaches of  his  wearied  sense;  then  utter  unconsciousness, 
while  pulse  and  heart  gradually  grew  fainter  until  both 
ceased.  And  that  was  all. 


TO  NANCY1 

BY  SIR  FREDERICK  WEDMORE 

WEYMOUTH,  sgth  September. 

IT  happens  that  I  have  seen  much  of  you,  Nancy,  at  an 
eventful  moment — eventful  for  yourself  I  mean,  in 
your  life  and  your  career — and  here,  because  I  like  you, 
and  like  to  think  of  and  reflect  on  you,  there  is  written 
down,  straight  and  full,  the  record  of  my  impression:  con- 
cealing nothing,  though  written  to  yourself:  a  letter  abso- 
lutely frank,  looking  all  facts  in  the  face;  for,  young  though 
you  are,  you  are  intelligent  enough  to  bear  them.  My  letter 
you  may  find  tedious,  perhaps,  but  at  all  events  unusual; 
for  letters,  even  when  detailed,  generally  omit  much,  hide 
some  part  of  a  thought — put  the  thing  in  a  way  that  pleases 
the  writer,  or  is  intended  to  please  the  receiver.  Here  am 
I  at  the  end  of  my  first  page,  Nancy,  and  all  preface! 
Well,  I  shall  recall,  to  begin  with,  how  it  was  that  I  met 
you. 

Acquit  me,  please,  of  any  general  love  of  your  over- 
praised Music  Hall.  Neither  it  nor  the  Theatre  counts  for 
much  in  my  life.  I  like  you  personally:  I  imagine  a  Future 
for  you;  but  I  am  not  anxious  for  "the  status  of  the  Pro- 
fession." Life,  it  is  just  possible,  has  other  goals  than  that 
of  being  received  in  smart  drawing-rooms — whatever  Art 
you  practise,  its  practice  is  your  reward.  Society,  my  dear, 
has  bestowed  of  late  upon  the  stage  "lover"  an  attention 
that  is  misplaced.  We  are  getting  near  the  end  of  it:  and, 
at  afternoon  teas,  the  cabotm,  in  a  frock  coat,  no  longer 
dominates  the  situation.  Youths  from  the  play-house  have 
in  the  Past,  over  the  luncheon-table,  imparted  to  me,  with 

1 A  letter  from  Mr.  Clement  Ashton,  the  distinguished  Painter, 
to  Miss  Nancy  Nanson,  of  the  Variety  Theatres. 

75 


76     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

patronage,  their  views  about  Painting:  to  me,  Nancy,  to 
your  old  friend,  who  has  painted  for  thirty  years — a  full 
Academician  one  year  since,  with  but  few  honours  (as  men 
call  them)  left  to  gain:  few  years,  alas!  in  which  to  live  to 
gain  them.  Child  as  you  are,  your  common  sense — that 
neatly-balanced  little  mind  of  yours  so  unusually  clear — 
that  neatly-balanced  mind  assures  you  that  it  is  not  the 
profession  you  follow,  but  what  you  have  been  able  to  do 
in  it,  and  what  you  really  are,  that  give  you — I  mean  of 
course,  gives  any  one — legitimate  claim  to  be  in  privileged 
places,  to  be  motioned  to  the  velvet  of  the  social  sward. 
"Artist,"  indeed!  As  well  expect  to  be  received  with  wel- 
come for  having  had  sufficient  capital  to  buy  a  camp  stool 
and  a  few  feet  of  German  moulding  with  which  to  frame  a 
canvas  sent  to  the  Dudley  Gallery,  as  to  be  suffered  to  dic- 
tate and  to  dogmatise  in  virtue  of  a  well-worn  coat  and  an 
appearance  at  a  London  theatre! 

You  have  read  so  far,  and  yet  I  have  not  reminded  you 
how  it  was  that  you  and  I  came  to  know  each  other.  It 
was  just  two  years  ago,  in  this  Weymouth  from  which 
I  write  to  you.  I  saw  a  photograph  that  struck  me,  at  the 
door  of  your  place  of  entertainment — at  the  door  of  the 
"People's  Delight."  The  face  was  young — but  I  have 
known  youth.  Pretty,  it  was — but  a  fashionable  portrait- 
painter  lives  with  prettiness.  It  was  so  monstrously  re- 
fined. 

At  three  o'clock,  they  said,  there  would  be  an  entertain- 
ment— Miss  Nancy  Nanson  would  certainly  be  seen.  And 
in  I  went,  with  a  companion — old  Sir  James  Purchas,  of 
Came  Manor — my  host  more  than  once  in  these  parts.  Sir 
James,  you  know,  is  not  a  prey  to  the  exactions  of  conven- 
tionality, and  there  was  no  reason  why  the  humble  enter- 
tainment your  lounge  and  shelter  offered  to  the  tripper 
should  not  afford  us  half  an  hour's  amusement. 

The  blazing  September  afternoon  you  recollect — Sep- 
tember with  the  glare  of  the  dog  days.  The  "people,"  it 
seemed,  were  not  profiting  that  day  by  the  "People's  De- 
light," for  the  place  was  all  but  empty — everyone  out  of 
doors — and  we  wandered,  not  aimlessly  indeed,  but  not  sue- 


TO  NANCY  77 

cessfully,  among  those  cavernous,  half-darkened  regions, 
among  the  stalls  for  fruits  and  sweets  and  cheap  jewelry,  in 
search  of  a  Show.  A  turn,  and  we  came  suddenly  on  rows 
of  empty  chairs  placed  in  front  of  a  small  stage,  with  drawn 
curtains;  and,  at  a  money-taker's  box  (for  reserved  seats, 
as  I  supposed) — leaning  over  the  money- taker's  counter,  in 
talk  with  someone  who  came,  it  may  be,  from  a  selling- 
stall — there  was  a  child,  a  little  girl.  Sir  James  touched 
my  arm,  directing  my  attention  to  her,  and  I  took  the 
initiative — said  to  the  little  girl:  "We  came  to  see  Miss 
Nancy  Nanson.  You  can  tell  us,  perhaps,  when  is  the 
Show  going  to  begin?"  "There  won't  be  any  entertainment 
this  afternoon,"  the  girl  answered;  "because,  you  see,  there 
isn't  any  audience.  I  am  Miss  Nancy  Nanson."  The 
dignity  of  the  child! 

The  fact  was,  you  remember,  that  photograph  at  the 
entrance  gave  the  impression  of  a  girl  of  seventeen;  and  I 
did  not  at  all  connect  it  with  the  figure  of  the  silver-voiced, 
well-spoken,  elegant  child,  who  proved  to  be  yourself— 
since  then  my  model  and  my  youthful  friend.  But  the 
moment  you  spoke,  and  when  my  eyes,  still  not  quite  used 
to  the  obscurity,  took  in  your  real  face  and  those  refined 
expressions,  the  identity  was  established,  though  the  photo- 
graph, with  its  dexterous  concealment,  showed  more  the 
Nancy  Nanson  you  were  going  to  be,  than  the  Nancy 
Nanson  that  you  were.  I  was  pleased,  nevertheless;  and 
we  talked  about  yourself  for  a  few  minutes;  and  when  you 
said  (because  I  asked  you)  that  there  would  be  an  enter- 
tainment next  day,  I  told  you  we  would  come  to  see  it, 
certainly.  And  Sir  James  was  indulgent.  And  I  am  a 
man  of  my  word. 

And  now  there  is  a  bit  we  can  afford  to  hurry  over;  for 
the  next  stage  of  our  acquaintance  does  not  advance,  appre- 
ciably, the  action  of  your  story.  We  came;  we  saw  your 
entertainment:  your  three  "turns";  singing,  dancing:  and 
pretty  enough  it  was — but  yet,  so-so.  You  were  such  a 
pleasant  child,  of  course  we  applauded  you — so  refined,  yet 
singing,  tolerably,  such  nonsense.  Even  then,  it  was  your 
charming  little  personality,  you  know — it  was  not  your 


78     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

performance  that  had  in  it  attractiveness.  Next  day,  I 
left  the  neighbourhood. 

For  two  years  after  that,  I  never  saw  Miss  Nancy 
Nanson,  "vocalist  and  dancer;"  only  once  heard  of  and 
read  of  you — only  once,  perhaps,  thought  of  you.  The  once 
was  last  Christmas — your  name,  I  saw,  was  advertised  hi  a 
pantomime  in  London — played  by  "juveniles."  I  might,  it 
is  just  possible,  have  gone  to  see  it.  But  the  average  "juve- 
nile I" — think! — and  then,  the  influenza  and  the  weather  I 

Well!  this  present  glowing  September,  Nancy — glowing 
and  golden  as  it  was  two  years  ago — brought  me  again,  and 
very  differently  into  touch  with  you.  The  Past  is  over. 
Now  I  fix  your  attention — for  you  are  still  patient  with 
me — I  fix  your  attention  on  the  Present,  and  I  point  out 
to  you,  in  detail — I  realise  to  myself — how  the  time  is 
critical,  eventful;  how  you  stand,  Nancy,  upon  a  certain 
brink.  I  am  not  going  to  prophesy  what  you  may  be;  but 
I  tell  you  what  you  are.  The  real  You,  you  know:  some- 
thing better  and  deeper  than  that  which  those  seven  Pastels, 
any  or  all  of  them  together,  show  you — my  delighted  notes 
of  your  external  beauty;  touched,  I  think,  with  some  charm 
of  grace  that  answers  well  to  your  own;  and  mimicking, 
not  badly,  the  colours  and  contours  of  your  stage  pres- 
ence. Nothing  more.  Chance  gleams — an  artist's  "snap- 
shots" at  Miss  Nancy  Nanson,  vocalist  and  dancer,  at  six- 
teen. (Sixteen  yesterday).  But  you — No! 

This  present  September — a  fortnight  since — I  came  again 
to  Weymouth;  this  time  alone;  putting  up  at  the  old 
"Gloucester"  (it  was  George  the  Third's  house)  from  which 
I  write  to  you;  and  not  at  Came  Manor,  in  the  neigh* 
bourhood.  In  the  Weymouth  of  to-day  one  is  obliged,  in 
nearly  every  walk,  to  pass  the  "People's  Delight" — your 
cheap  vulgarity,  my  dear,  that  the  great  Georgian  time 
would  have  resented.  I  passed  it  soon,  and  the  two  names 
biggest  upon  the  bills  were,  "Achilles,  the  Strong  Man" — 
there  are  things  in  which  even  a  decayed  watering  place 
cannot  afford  to  be  behind  the  fashion,  and  the  "strong 
man"  is  in  fashion  to-day — "Achilles,  the  Strong  Man," 
then,  and  "Miss  Nancy  Nanson."  Again  did  I  go  in;  took 


TO  NANCY  79 

the  seat,  exactly,  that  I  had  taken  two  years  since,  in  the 
third  row  of  chairs;  and  while  a  band  of  three  made  cas- 
ual, lifeless,  introductory  music,  I  waited  for  the  Show. 

The  curtain  rose  presently  on  a  great,  living,  breathing, 
over-energetic  statue — a  late  Renaissance  bronze,  by  John 
of  Bologna,  he  seemed — that  muscular  piece  of  colour  and 
firm  form,  that  nigger,  posed  effectively,  and  of  prodigious 
force.  "John  of  Bologna" — but  you  never  heard  of  him! 
Then  he  began  his  operations — Achilles,  the  Strong  Man 
— holding,  and  only  by  his  teeth,  enormous  weights;  and 
rushing  round  with  one,  two,  hundredweight,  as  if  it  were 
a  feather;  lifting,  with  that  jaw  of  his,  masses  of  iron; 
crashing  them  on  the  stage  again,  and  standing  afterwards 
with  quivering  muscles,  heaving  chest.  Applause — I  joined 
in  it  myself,  in  common  courtesy — and  then  the  curtain 
fell. 

A  wait.  The  band  struck  up  again — it  was  your  first 
"turn."  A  slim  and  dainty  figure,  so  very  slight,  so  very- 
young,  in  a  lad's  evening  dress,  advanced  with  swiftness 
towards  the  footlights,  and  bowed  in  a  wide  sweep  that 
embraced  everyone.  Then  you  began  to  sing — and  not 
too  well,  you  know — a  song  of  pretty-enough  sentiment; 
the  song  of  a  stripling  whose  sweetheart  was  his  mother. 
His  mother,  she  sufficed  for  him.  It  suited  your  young 
years.  A  tender  touch  or  two,  and  with  a  boy's  manliness. 
Applause!  You  vanished. 

You  vanished  to  return.  In  a  girl's  dress  this  time, 
with  movements  now  more  swift  and  now  more  graceful. 
Another  song,  and,  this  time,  dancing  with  it.  It  was  danc- 
ing you  were  born  for.  "She  has  grown  another  being — 
and  yet  with  the  old  pleasantness — in  these  two  years,"  I 
thought.  "A  child  no  longer."  In  colour  and  agility  you 
were  a  brilliant  show.  I  have  told  you  since,  in  talking, 
what  I  thought  of  you.  You  were  not  a  Sylvia  Grey,  my 
dear;  still  less  that  other  Sylvia  Voltaire  praised  con- 
trasting her  with  the  Camargo.  The  Graces  danced 
like  Sylvia,  Voltaire  said — like  the  Camargo,  the  wild 
Nymphs.  No!  you  were  not  Voltaire's  Sylvia,  any  more 
than  you  were  Sylvia  Grey.  Sylvia  Grey's  dance  is  per- 


8o     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

feet,  from  the  waist  upwards — as  an  observant  actress 
pointed  out  to  me,  with  whom  I  saw  it.  Swan-like  in  the 
holding,  and  slow  movement,  of  the  head  and  neck;  ex- 
quisite in  the  undulations  of  the  torso.  Where  Sylvia 
Grey  ends — I  mean  where  her  remarkableness  ends  (for 
she  has  legs  like  another,  I  take  it) — you,  my  dear,  begin. 
Your  modelling  wants  an  Ingres  to  do  it  justice.  The 
slimness  of  the  girl,  and  what  a  fineness,  as  of  race;  and 
then,  the  agility  of  infinite  practice,  and  sixteen  young 
years! 

A  third  "turn" — then  it  was  that  you  were  agile  most 
of  all.  The  flying  feet  went  skyward.  Black  shoes  rushed, 
rocket-like,  so  far  above  your  head,  and  clattered  on  the 
floor  again;  whilst  against  the  sober  crimson  of  the  back- 
ground curtain — a  dull,  thin  stuff,  stretched  straight — 
gleamed  the  white  of  moving  skirts,  and  blazed  the  boss  of 
brightest  scarlet  that  nestled  somewhere  in  the  brown  gold 
of  your  head.  Then,  flushed  and  panting,  it  was  over. 

Next  day,  in  a  gaunt  ante-room,  or  extra  chamber,  its 
wooden  floor  quite  bare,  and  the  place  furnished  only  with 
a  couple  of  benches  and  a  half-voiceless  semi-grand  piano 
— the  wreck  of  an  Erard  that  was  great  once — in  that  big, 
bare  room,  Nancy,  where  my  Pastels  since  have  caught 
your  pose,  in  lilac,  rose  and  orange,  but  never  your  grave 
character,  I  came  upon,  and  closely  noted,  and,  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  talked  to,  a  sedate  young  girl  in  black 
— a  lady  who,  in  all  her  bearing,  ways,  gesture,  silver 
voice,  was  as  refined  as  any,  young  or  old,  that  I  have 
been  in  contact  with,  in  my  long  life — and  I  have  lived 
abundantly  amongst  great  ladies,  from  stately,  restful 
Quakeress  to  the  descendant  of  the  "hundred  Earls."  No 
one  is  more  refined  than  you.  This  thing  may  not  last 
with  you.  Whether  it  lasts,  depends,  in  great  measure, 
upon  the  life  you  lead,  in  the  strange  world  opening  to 
you.  Your  little  craft,  Nancy,  your  slender  skiff,  will  have 
some  day  to  labour  over  voluminous  seas. 

You  remember  what  you  told  me,  in  the  great  ante- 
room, standing  by  the  wreck  of  the  Erard,  that  your  fingers 
touched.  All  your  life  to  that  time.  You  were  frankness, 


TO  NANCY  8r 

absolutely;  standing  there  in  your  dull,  black  frock,  that 
became  you  to  perfection;  standing  with  hat  of  broad, 
black  straw — the  clear-cut  nose,  the  faultless  mouth,  the 
bright-brown  hair  curled  short  about  your  head,  and  the 
limpid  look  of  your  serene  eyes,  steadily  grey.  It  was 
interesting,  and  amusing  too,  your  story.  I  told  you,  you 
remember,  how  much  you  had  got  on,  how  changed  you 
were,  what  progress  I  had  noticed.  And  you  said  a  pretty 
"Thank  you."  It  was  clear  that  you  meant  it.  We  were 
friends.  I  asked  who  taught  you — so  far  as  anything  can 
be  taught,  in  this  world,  where,  at  bottom,  one's  work, 
one's  progress,  is  one's  own.  You  said,  your  mother.  And 
I  told  you  I'd  seen  your  name  in  some  London  Christmas 
play-bill.  "I  had  a  big  success,"  you  said.  What  a  the- 
atrical moment! — the  one  occasion,  in  all  my  little  dealings 
with  you,  in  which  I  found  the  traditions  of  "the  Profes- 
sion" stronger  with  you  than  your  own  personal  character. 
Now,  your  own  personal  instinct  is  to  be  modest  and  nat- 
ural; the  traditions  of  "the  Profession"  are  to  boast.  You 
did  boast,  Nancy!  You  had  a  big  success,  had  you?  Per- 
haps, for  yourself;  I  do  not  say  you  failed.  But  the 
piece — my  dea"r,  you  know  it  was  a  frost.  Did  it  run  three 
weeks?  Come  now!  And  someone,  out  of  jealousy,  paid 
four  guineas — she  or  her  friends  did — to  get  you  a  bad 
notice  somewhere  in  backstairs  journalism.  And  they  got 
it,  and  then  repented  of  it.  You  were  friends  with  them 
afterwards.  But  what  a  world,  Nancy! — a  world  in  which, 
for  four  guineas,  a  scoundrel  contributes  his  part  towards 
damning  your  career! 

You  remember,  before  I  asked  if  I  might  make  some 
sketches  of  you,  you  were  turning  over  a  song  that  had 
been  sent  you  by  a  "gentleman  at  Birmingham."  He 
had  had  it  "ruled"  for  you,  and  wanted  you  to  buy  it  for 
three  pounds.  It  was  "rather  a  silly  song,"  you  thought, 
I  settled  myself  quietly  to  master  the  sense,  or,  as  was 
more  probable,  the  nonsense,  of  it.  My  dear,  it  was  blank 
rubbish!  But  you  were  not  going  to  have  it,  you  said. 
"Mamma  would  never  buy  a  song  I  didn't  like  and  take 
to."  That  was  well,  I  thought.  And  then  you  slowly 


82     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

closed  the  ruined  Erard,  and  were  going  away.  But  on 
the  road  down-stairs,  remember,  I  persuaded  you  to  ask 
your  mother  that  you  might  give  me  sittings.  I  told  you 
who  I  was.  And  in  the  gaunt  ante-room,  lit  well  from 
above,  I  had  a  sitting  next  day.  It  was  the  first  of  sev- 
eral. And  your  mother  trusted  me,  and  trusted  you,  as  you 
deserve  to  be  trusted.  And  we  worked  hard  together, 
didn't  we? — you  posing,  and  I  drawing.  And  there  are 
seven  Pastels  which  record — tant  bien  que  mat,  my  dear — 
the  delightful  outside  of  you,  the  side  the  public  might 
itself  see,  if  it  had  eyes  to  really  see — the  flash  of  you  in 
the  dance,  snow-white  or  carmine;  and  I  got  all  that  with 
alacrity — "swift  means"  I  took,  to  "radiant  ends" — the 
poise  of  the  slim  figure,  the  white  frock  slashed  with  gold, 
the  lifted  foot,  and  that  gleam  of  vivid  scarlet  in  your  hair, 
against  the  background  of  most  sober  crimson. 

This  tranquil  Sunday  I  devote  to  writing  to  you,  is  the 
da/  after  your  last  appearance  at  the  "People's  Delight." 
YOu  and  your  mother,  very  soon,  you  tell  me,  leave  Wey- 
mouth  and  your  old  associations — it  is  your  home,  you 
know — and  you  leave  it  for  ever.  The  country,  you  ad- 
mit, is  beautiful,  but  you  are  tired  of  the  place.  I  don't 
much  wonder.  And  you  leave  it — the  great  Bay,  the  noble 
chalk  Downs,  the  peace  of  Dorset  and  its  gleaming  quiet 
— you  leave  it  for  lodgings  in  the  Waterloo  Road.  For 
you  must  be  amongst  the  agents  for  the  Halls.  Though 
you  have  been  upon  the  Stage  since  you  were  very  little, 
you  have  but  lately,  so  you  say,  "put  your  heart  into  it." 
Well!  it  is  not  unnatural.  But  no  more  Sunday  drives 
into  the  lovely  country,  recollect,  with  your  brother,  who 
is  twenty-one  and  has  his  trade;  and  your  uncle,  who  is 
in  a  good  way  of  business  here,  you  said — your  uncle,  the 
plumber. 

And  so,  last  night  being  your  last  night,  Nancy,  it  was 
almost  like  a  Benefit.  As  for  your  dancing,  you  meant,  I 
knew,  to  give  us  the  cup  filled — yes,  filled  and  running 
over.  I  had  noticed  that,  on  some  earlier  evening,  when 
Little  Lily  Somebody — a  dumpling  child,  light  of  foot,  but 
with  not  one  delightful  "line"  in  all  her  meaningless,  fat 


TO  NANCY  83 

form — when  Lily  Somebody  had  capered  her  infantile  fool- 
ishness, to  the  satisfaction  of  those  who  rejoice  in  mere 
babyhood,  someone  presented  her  with  a  bouquet.  And 
you  danced  excellently,  just  after  her — you,  height  and 
grace,  slimness  and  soul — and  someone,  with  much  effusion, 
handed  you  up  a  box  of  chocolates.  And  you  smiled  pleas- 
antly. I  saw  there  was  a  little  conflict  in  your  mind,  how- 
ever, between  the  gracious  recognition  of  what  was  well- 
enough  meant,  and  the  resentment — well,  the  resentment 
we  can  hardly  call  it:  the  regret,  at  all  events — at  being 
treated  so  very  visibly  as  a  child — and  yesterday  you  were 
to  be  sixteen!  So  I  myself— who,  if  this  small  indignity 
had  not  been  offered  you,  might  conceivably  have  given  you, 
in  private,  at  all  events,  a  basket  of  fine  fruit — I  meant 
to  offer  you  flowers.  It  might  have  been  fruit,  I  say,  if 
smuggled  into  the  ante-room  where  I  had  done  my  Pastels; 
for  I  had  seen  you  once  there,  crunching,  quite  happily, 
imperfect  apples  between  perfect  teeth — your  perfect  teeth, 
almost  the  only  perfect  things,  Nancy,  in  an  imperfect 
world. 

But  it  had  to  be  flowers.  So  I  sent  round  to  the  dress- 
ing-room, just  as  you  were  getting  ready,  two  "button- 
holes" merely — wired  "button-holes" — of  striped  carna- 
tions, red  or  wine-coloured.  They  were  not  worn  in  your 
first  turn.  They  were  not  worn  in  your  second.  In  your 
third  turn,  I  espied  them  at  your  neck's  side,  in  the  fury 
of  your  dance.  Already  there  are  people,  I  suppose,  who 
would  have  thought  those  striped  carnations  happy — tossed, 
tossed  to  pieces,  in  the  warmth  of  your  throat. 

Your  second  turn,  last  night,  you  know,  was  in  flowing 
white,  slashed  with  gold — old-gold  velvet — with  pale  stock- 
ings. The  third — when  the  flowers  died  happy  in  your 
riot — in  pure  white  alone,  with  stockings  black.  You 
remember  the  foot  held  in  your  hand,  as  you  swing  round 
upon  the  other  toe — and  one  uplifted  leg  seen  horizontal, 
in  its  straight  and  modelled  slimness. 

My  dear — what  were  my  little  flowers?  Who  could 
have  known — when  you  had  finished — the  great  things  still 
to  come?  When  the  applause  seemed  over,  and  the  en- 


84     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

thusiasm  of  some  subaltern  from  Dorchester  was,  as  I  take 
it,  abated  or  suppressed — when  the  applause  was  over,  a 
certain  elocutionist  (Mr.  Paris  Brown,  wasn't  it?) 
brought  you  again  upon  the  stage,  and  saying  it  was 
your  last  appearance,  made  you  some  presentation:  a 
brooch  from  himself,  "of  no  intrinsic  value"  he  informed 
us — I  willingly  believed  him — a  bracelet  from  I  don't  know 
who — that  had  an  "intrinsic  value,"  I  surmise — and  a 
bouquet — exquisite!  It  was  "From  an  admirer,"  Mr. 
Paris  Brown,  the  elocutionist,  read  out,  from  an  accom- 
panying card.  Then  he  congratulated  you  upon  your  Past; 
prophesied  as  to  your  Future;  and,  in  regard  to  the  pres- 
ents to  you,  he  said,  in  words  that  were  quite  happily 
chosen — because,  Nancy,  they  were  reticent  while  they 
were  expressive — "She  is  but  a — girl;  and  she  has  done 
her  duty  by  the  Management.  Long  may  she  be  a  credit 
to  her  father  and  mother!"  Your  mother  I  was  well 
aware  of — your  mother  I  respect;  and  you,  you  love  her. 
But  your  father — he  was  invented,  I  think,  for  the  occa- 
sion, as  an  additional  protection,  should  the  designs  upon 
you  of  tha  admirer  from  Dorchester  prove  to  be  not  alto- 
gether such  as  they  ought  to  be.  The  precaution  was  un- 
necessary; it  was  taking  Time  by  the  forelock.  Our  young 
friend  looked  ingenuous,  and  smitten  grievously — you  seem 
so  big  upon  the  stage,  Nancy — so  grown  up,  I  mean.  I 
could,  I  think,  have  toned  down  his  emotions,  had  I  told 
him  you  were  a  bare  sixteen. 

Nancy,  there  is — for  me — a  certain  pathos  in  this  pas- 
sage of  yours  from  childhood  into  ripening  girlhood ;  a  book 
closed,  as  it  were;  a  phase  completed;  and  ending  of  the 
way.  "What  chapter  is  to  open?  Nancy  Nanson — what 
phase  or  facet  of  her  life,"  I  ask  myself,  "is  now  so  soon 
to  be  presented?  What  other  way,  what  unfamiliar  one  is 
to  follow  her  blameless  and  dutiful  childhood?"  I  had  a 
restless  night,  Nancy.  Thinking  of  this,  one  saw — ridicu- 
lously perhaps — a  presage  in  the  first  bouquet,  a  threat  in 
the  first  bracelet — in  the  admirer's  card.  Would  she  be 
like  the  rest? — at  least,  so  many  of  them.  Besmirched, 
too? 


TO  NANCY  85 

Remember,  Nancy,  I  am  no  Puritan  at  all.  I  recog- 
nise Humanity's  instincts.  There  is  little  I  do  not  tolerate. 
I  recognise  the  gulf  that  separates  the  accidentally  impolitic 
from  the  essentially  wrong.  But  we  owe  things  to  other 
people — to  the  World's  laws.  We  have  responsibilities. 
Noblesse  oblige;  and  all  superiority  is  Noblesse.  "She  must 
not  be  like  the  rest,"  I  said,  last  night,  in  broken  dreams; 
"dining,  winking,  leering  even,  since  sold  at  last  and  made 
common."  In  broken  dreams,  last  night — or  in  wakeful 
hours — your  feet  tossed  higher:  your  gay  blood  passed  into 
the  place — electrical,  overpowering.  You  can  be  so  grave 
and  sweet,  you  know;  and  you  can  be  so  mad. 

Have  you  ever  lain  awake,  in  the  great,  long  darkness, 
and  watched  in  the  darkness  a  procession — the  people  of 
your  Past  and  all  your  ^Future?  But  you  have  no  Past. 
For  myself,  I  have  watched  them.  My  mother,  who  is 
long  gone;  those  who  were  good  to  me,  and  whom  I  slighted; 
the  relations  who  failed  me';  the  friend  I  lost.  And  the 
uncertain  figures  of  the  Future!  But  the  line  of  the  Fu- 
ture is  short  enough  for  me — for  you,  it  is  all  yours.  Last 
night,  it  seemed  to  me,  the  dark  was  peopled  with  your 
enemies;  with  your  false  friends,  who  were  coming — al- 
ways coming — the  unavoidable  crowd  of  the  egotistic  de- 
stroyers of  youth.  Their  dark  hearts,  I  thought,  look  upon 
her  as  a  prey:  some  of  them  cruel,  some  of  them  cynical, 
yet  some  of  them  only  careless.  And  I  wished  that  last 
night  had  not  come — your  sixteenth  birthday — with  the 
applause,  and  gifts,  and  menacing  triumph. 

There  are  women,  perhaps,  men  cannot  wrong — since  they 
have  wronged  themselves  too  much.  "This  is  a  good  girl," 
I  said;  and  my  over-anxious  mind — in  real  affection  for 
her — cries  out  to  all  the  horrid  forces  of  the  world :  "Leave 
Nancy!" 

Nancy,  when  you  read  this,  you  smile — and  naturally — 
at  your  most  sombre  friend.  You  think,  of  course,  with 
all  the  reckless  trust,  courageous  confidence,  of  girlhood, 
"So  unnecessary!" 

Go  the  straight  way!  .  .  .  Whatever  way  you  go,  I  shall 
always  be  your  friend.  CLEMENT  ASHTON. 


86     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

Post-script.  But  I  can't  end  like  this.  For  when  you 
want  to  be  reproached  the  least,  some  of  my  sentences 
sound  hard.  Be  hopeful!  For,  as  it  seems  to  me — the 
more  I  think  of  you — whatever  happened,  the  quite  irre- 
parable has  not  happened.  And/ — if  it  had!  Surely,  sure- 
ly, you  can  forget,  for  ever,  one  mad  hour!  And,  from 
whatever  point,  you  can  begin  "the  journey  homeward" — 
to  yourself.  You  can  be  the  real  You  again;  the  real 
Nancy — your  very  characteristic,  the  perfection  of  the  con- 
trast between  the  wildness  of  the  theatre  and  your  happy 
quietude. 

You  were  a  little  fool  the  other  day,  were  you  not?  And 
you  were  on  deep  waters.  But  I  believe  that  you  did  not  go 
under. 

And  so,  dear  Nancy — and  in  any  case — it's  at  home  I 
must  think  of  you.  With  that  golden  wig,  that  adds — 
piquantly  perhaps,  and  yet  abominably — to  your  years,  the 
maddening  dancer  is  put  off.  The  brown-haired  child,  in 
the  plain  dress,  is  in  her  place — the  short  brown  hair, 
the  quiet  eyes,  the  tender,  sensitive  mouth.  Your  lodg- 
ing-house parlour  is  ornamented  with  a  play-bill,  and 
photographs  are  stuck  about  the  mantelpiece — Miss 
Marie  Dainton,  is  it?  and  your  uncle,  the  plumber; 
and,  again,  a  celebrity  of  the  Halls;  and  somebody 
else,  who  was  nice  to  you,  a  year  ago,  at  Weymouth; 
some  comrade  you  were  fond  of:  "She's  a  dear  girl,"  you 
said.  In  the  lodging-house  parlour,  your  mother  sits  be- 
side the  fireplace,  combing  out  the  golden  wig,  after  its 
last  night's  service.  The  kettle,  in  preparation  for  tea- 
time,  not  far  off,  is  at  the  side  of  the  fire.  It  begins  to 
sing.  You,  Nancy,  sit  beyond  the  table,  on  a  cane-bot- 
tomed chair;  with  your  knees  crossed — as  I  saw  you,  that 
first  time  I  called  on  you  in  London.  Your  hands,  so 
young,  so  nervous,  and  so  highly  bred,  smooth  out  upon 
your  lap  a  bit  of  wool-work,  that  you — whose  instinct  is 
to  please  and  to  be  pleasant — are  doing  for  your  landlady. 
And,  in  the  glow  of  the  fender,  lies  curled  up,  warm  and 
sleeping,  that  grey  kitten  rescued  from  misery,  four  days 
before,  by  yon:  won  to  you  by  your  magnetism,  or  your 


TO  NANCY  87 

kindness — they  are  both  the  same.  In  the  morning,  when 
your  mother  leaves  your  bed — leaves  the  tired  child,  worn 
out  by  the  theatre,  to  an  hour's  extra  resting — the  soft  grey 
thing,  that  you  bewitched  and  cared  for,  creeps  to  your 
side — is  happy. 

Did  they  ever  teach  you,  at  your  school,  I  wonder,  verses 
of  Wordsworth  on  the  stock-dove?  What  did  the  stock- 
dove sing? 

He  sang  of  love  with  quiet  blending, 
Slow'  to  begin,  and  never  ending ; 
Of  serious  faith,  and  inward  glee. 
That  was  the  song — the  song  for  me! 

Nancy! — the  spirit  of  the  stock-dove's  song  lies  in  the 
deepest  heart  of  Nancy  Nanson. 

C.  A- 


AN  EMPTY  FRAME1 

BY  GEORGE  EGERTON 

IT  was  a  simple,  pretty  little  frame,  such  as  you  may 
buy  at  any  sale  cheaply;  its  ribbed  wood,  aspinalled 
white,  with  an  inner  frame  of  pale-blue  plush;  its  one 
noticeable  feature  that  it  was  empty.  And  yet  it  stood 
on  the  middle  of  the  bedroom  mantelboard. 

It  was  not  a  luxurious  room;  none  of  the  furniture 
matched.  It  was  a  typical  boarding-house  bedroom. 

Any  one  preserving  the  child  habit  of  endowing  inani- 
mate objects  with  human  attributes  might  fancy  that  the 
flickering  flames  of  the  fire  took  a  pleasure  in  bringing 
into  relief  the  bright  bits  in  its  dinginess;  for  they  played 
over  the  silver-backed  brushes  and  the  cut-glass  perfume 
bottles  on  the  dressing-table,  flicked  the  bright  beads  on 
the  toes  of  coquettish  small  shoes  and  the  steel  clasps  of 
a  travelling  bag  in  the  corner,  imparting  a  casual  air  of 
comfort  such  as  the  touch  of  certain  dainty  women  lends 
to  a  common  room. 

A  woman  enters, — a  woman  wondrously  soft  and  swift 
in  all  her  movements.  She  seems  to  reach  a  place  without 
your  seeing  how;  no  motion  of  elbow  or  knee  betrays  her. 
Her  fingers  glide  swiftly  down  the  buttons  of  her  gown; 
in  a  second  she  has  freed  herself  from  its  enshea thing; 
garment  after  garment  falls  from  her,  until  she  stands  al- 
most free.  She  gets  into  nightdress  and  loose  woolen  dress- 
ing-gown, and  slips  her  naked  feet  into  fur-lined  slippers, 
with  a  movement  that  is  somehow  the  expression  of  an 
intense  nervous  relief  from  a  thrall.  Everything  she  does 

1  From  "Keynotes."  Copyright,  1893,  by  Roberts  Brothers.  By 
permission  of  Little,  Brown  &  Co. 

88 


AN  EMPTY  FRAME  89 

is  done  so  swiftly  that  you  see  the  result  rather  than  the 
working  out  of  each  action. 

She  sinks  into  a  chair  before  the  fire,  and  clasping  her 
hands  behind  her  head,  peers  into  the  glowing  embers.  The 
firelight,  lower  than  her  face,  touches  it  cruelly;  picks  out 
and  accentuates  as  remorselessly  as  a  rival  woman  the 
autographs  past  emotions  have  traced  on  its  surface;  deep- 
ens the  hollows  of  her  delicate  thoughtful  temples  and  the 
double  furrow  between  her  clever  irregular  eyebrows.  Her 
face  is  more  characteristic  than  beautiful.  Nine  men  would 
pass  it,  the  tenth  sell  his  immortal  soul  for  it.  The  chin  is 
strong,  the  curve  of  jaw  determined;  there  is  a  little  full 
place  under  the  chin's  sharp  point.  The  eyes  tell  you  little; 
they  are  keen  and  inquiring,  and  probe  others'  thoughts 
rather  than  reveal  their  own.  The  whole  face  is  one  of 
peculiar  strength  and  self-reliance.  The  mouth  is  its  con- 
tradiction; the  passionate  curve  of  the  upper  lip  with  its 
mobile  corners,  and  the  tender  little  under  lip  that  shelters 
timidly  under  it,  are  encouraging  promises  against  its 
strength. 

The  paleness  of  some  strong  feeling  tinges  her  face;  a 
slight  trembling  runs  through  her  frame.  Her  inner  soul- 
struggle  is  acting  as  a  strong  developing  fluid  upon  a 
highly  sensitized  plate;  anger,  scorn,  pity,  contempt  chase 
one  another  like  shadows  across  her  face.  Her  eyes  rest 
upon  the  empty  frame,  and  the  plain  white  space  becomes 
alive  to  her.  Her  mind's  eye  fills  it  with  a  picture  it  once 
held  in  its  dainty  embrace, — a  rare  head  among  the  rarest 
heads  of  men,  with  its  crest  of  hair  tossed  back  from  the 
great  brow,  its  proud  poise  and  the  impress  of  grand,  con- 
fident, compelling  genius  that  reveals  itself,  one  scarce  knows 
how;  with  the  brute  possibility  of  an  untamed,  natural 
man  lurking  about  the  mouth  and  powerful  throat.  She 
feels  the  subduing  smile  of  eyes  that  never  failed  to  make 
her  weak  as  a  child  under  their  gaze,  and  tame  as  a  hungry 
bird.  She  stretches  out  her  hands  with  a  pitiful  little  move- 
ment, and  then,  remembering,  lets  them  drop,  and  locks 
them  until  the  knuckles  stand  out  whitely.  She  shuts  her 
eyes,  and  one  tear  after  the  other  starts  from  beneath  her 


90     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

lids,  trickles  down  her  cheeks,  and  drops  with  a  splash  into 
her  lap.  She  does  not  sob,  only  cries  quietly ;  and  she  sees, 
as  if  she  held  the  letter  in  her  hand,  the  words  that  de- 
cided her  fate: — 

"You  love  me ;  I  know  it,  you  other  half  of  ne.  You  want  me 
to  complete  your  life,  as  I  you,  you  good,  sweet  woman;  you 
slight,  weak  thing,  with  your  strong  will  and  your  grand,  great 
heart ;  you  witch,  with  a  soul  of  clean  white  fire.  I  kiss  your 
hands, — such  little  hands!  I  never  saw  the  like;  slim  child- 
hands,  with  a  touch  as  cool  and  as  soft  as  a  snow-flake!  You 
dear  one,  come  to  me;  I  want  you,  now,  always.  Be  with  me, 
work  with  me,  share  with  me,  live  with  me,  my  equal  as  a 
creature ;  above  me,  as  my  queen  of  women !  I  love  you,  I 
worship  you ;  but  you  know  my  views.  I  cannot,  I  will  not  bind 
myself  to  you  by  any  legal  or  religious  tie.  I  must  be  free  and 
unfettered  to  follow  that  which, I  believe  right  for  me.  If  you 
come  to  me  in  all  trust,  I  can  and  will  give  myself  to  you  in  all 
good  faith, — yours  as  much  as  you  will,  forever!  I  will  kneel 
to  you;  why  should  I  always  desire  to  kneel  to  you?  Is  it  not 
that  I  stand  in  awe  of  you,  or  that  I  ever  feel  a  need  to  kneel 
at  all;  but  always  to  you,  and  to  you  alone.  Cornel  I  will 
crouch  at  your  feet  and  swear  myself  to  you !" 

And  she  had  replied  "No!"  and  in  her  loneliness  of 
spirit  married  him  who  seemed  to  need  her  most  out  of 
those  who  admired  her. 

The  door  opens,  and  he  comes  in.  He  looks  inquiringly 
at  her,  touches  her  hair  half  hesitatingly,  and  then  stands 
with  his  hands  thrust  in  his  pockets  and  gnaws  his  mus- 
tache. 

"Are  you  angry,  little  woman?" 

"No,"  very  quietly;  "why  should  I  be?" 

She  closes  her  eyes  again,  and  after  five  minutes'  silence 
he  begins  to  undress.  He  does  it  very  slowly,  looking  per- 
plexedly at  her.  When  he  has  finished,  he  stands  with  his 
back  to  the  fire,  an  unlovely  object  in  sleeping  suit. 

"Would  you  like  to  read  her  letter?" 

She  shakes  her  head. 

"I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  sent  her  back  her  letters 
before,  you  know.  She  hadn't  heard  I  was  married." 

"Yes,"  she  interjects,  "it  would  have  been  better  to 
start  with  a  clean  bill;  but  why  talk  about  it?" 


AN  EMPTY  FRAME  91 

He  looks  at  her  awhile,  then  gets  into  bed  and  watches 
her  from  behind  the  pages  of  the  "Field."  It  seems  un- 
usually quiet.  His  watch  that  he  has  left  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket,  thrown  across  the  back  of  a  chair,  seems  to  fill  the 
whole  room  with  a  nervous  tick. 

He  tosses  the  paper  on  to  the  floor.  She  looks  up  as  it 
falls,  rises,  turns  off  the  gas-jet,  sinks  back  into  her  old 
position,  and  stares  into  the  fire.  He  gets  up,  goes  over, 
and  kneels  down  next  her. 

"I  am  awfully  sorry  you  are  put  out,  old  girl.  I  saw 
you  were  when  I  answered  you  like  that;  but  I  couldn't 
help  feeling  a  bit  cut  up,  you  know.  She  wrote  such  an 
awfully  nice  letter,  you  know,  wished " 

"You  all  sorts  of  happiness,"  with  a  snap,  "and  hopes 
you'll  meet  in  a  better  world?" 

He  rises  to  his  feet  and  stares  at  her  in  dumb  amazement. 
How  could  she  know?  She  smiles  with  a  touch  of  mali- 
cious satisfaction,  as  she  sees  the  effect  of  her  chance  shot. 

"It's  a  pity,  isn't  it,  that  you  both  have  to  wait  so  long?" 

He  imagines  he  sees  light,  and  blunders  ahead  like  an 
honest  man. 

"I  wouldn't  have  sent  those  things  back  now  if  I  had 
thought  you  cared.  By  Jove,  it  never  entered  my  head 
that  you'd  be  jealous!" 

•"Jealous?"  She  is  on  her  feet  like  a  red  white  flash. 
"I,  jealous  of  her?"  Each  word  is  emphasized.  "I  couldn't 
be  jealous  of  her,  Nitr  die  Dummen  sind  bescheiden!  Why, 
the  girl  isn't  fit  to  tie  my  shoe-strings!" 

This  is  too  much;  he  feels  he  must  protest. 

"You  don't  know  her,"  feebly.  "She  is  an  awfully  nice 
girl!" 

"  'Nice  girl! *  I  don't  doubt  it;  and  she  will  be  an  awfully 
nice  woman,  and  under  each  and  every  circumstance  of 
life  she  will  behave  like  an  awfully  nice  person.  Jealous! 
Do  you  think  I  cried  because  I  was  jealous?  Good  God, 
no!  I  cried  because  I  was  sorry,  fearfully  sorry,  for  my- 
self. She" — with  a  fine  thin  contempt — "would  have 
suited  you  better  than  I.  Jealous!  no,  only  sorry.  Sorry 
because  any  nice  average  girl  of  her  type,  who  would  model 


92     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

her  frocks  out  of  the  'Lady's  Pictorial,'  gush  over  that  dear 
Mr.  Irving,  paint  milking-stools,  try  poker-work,  or  any 
other  fashionable  fad,  would  have  done  you  just  as  well. 
And  I" — with  a  catch  of  voice — "with  a  great  man  might 
have  made  a  great  woman;  and  now  those  who  know  and 
understand  me  [bitterly]  think  of  me  as  a  great  failure." 

She  finishes  wearily;  the  fire  dies  out  of  eyes  and  voice. 
She  adds  half  aloud,  as  if  to  herself, 

"I  don't  think  I  quite  realised  this  until  I  saw  how  you 
took  that  letter.  I  was  watching  your  face  as  you  read  it;  and 
the  fact  that  you  could  put  her  on  the  same  level,  that  if 
it  had  not  been  for  a  mistake  she  would  have  suited  you 
as  well,  made  me  realise,  don't  you  see?  that  I  would  have 
done  someone  else  better!" 

He  is  looking  at  her  in  utter  bewilderment,  and  she  smiles 
as  she  notes  his  expression;  she  touches  his  cheek  gently, 
and  leans  her  head  against  his  arm. 

"There,  it's  all  right,  boy!  Don't  mind  me.  I  have  a 
bit  of  a  complex  nature ;  you  couldn't  understand  me  if  you 
tried  to,  and  better  not  try!" 

She  has  slipped,  while  speaking,  her  warm  bare  foot  out 
of  her  slipper,  and  is  rubbing  it  gently  over  his  chilled 
ones. 

"You  are  cold,  better  go  back  to  bed;  I  shall  go  too!" 

She  stands  a  moment  quietly  as  he  turns  to  obey,  and 
then  takes  the  frame,  and  kneeling  down  puts  it  gently 
into  the  hollowed  red  heart  of  the  fire.  It  crackles  crisply, 
and  little  tongues  of  flame  shoot  up;  and  she  gets  into  bed 
by  their  light. 


When  the  fire  has  burnt  out,  and  he  is  sleeping  like  a 
child  with  his  curly  head  on  her  breast,  she  falls  asleep  too, 
and  dreams  that  she  is  sitting  on  a  fiery  globe  rolling  away 
into  space;  that  her  head  is  wedged  in  a  huge  frame,  the 
top  of  her  head  touches  its  top,  the  sides  its  sides,  and  it 
keeps  growing  larger  and  larger,  and  her  head  with  it,  until 
she  seems  to  be  sitting  inside  her  own  head,  and  the  inside 
is  one  vast  hollow. 


THE  THREE  MUSKETEERS 

BY  RUDYARD  KIPLING 

An'  when  the  war  began,  we  chased  the  bold  Afghan, 
An'  we  made  the  bloomin'  Ghazi  for  to  flee,  boys  O ! 
An'  we  marched  into  Kabul,  an'  we  tuk  the  Balar  'Issar 
An'  we  taught  'em  to  respec'  the  British  Soldier. 

Barrack  Room  Ballad. 

MULVANEY,  Ortheris  and  Learoyd  are  Privates  in 
B  Company  of  a  Line  Regiment,  and  personal 
friends  of  mine.  Collectively  I  think,  but  am  not 
certain,  they  are  the  worst  men  in  the  regiment  so  far  as 
genial  blackguardism  goes. 

They  told  me  this  tory  in  the  Umballa  Refreshment 
Room  while  we  were  waiting  for  an  up-train.  I  supplied 
the  beer.  The  tale  was  cheap  at  a  gallon  and  a  half. 

All  men  know  Lord  Benira  Trig.  He  is  a  Duke,  or 
an  Earl,  or  something  unofficial;  also  a  Peer;  also  a  Globe- 
trotter. On  all  three  counts,  as  Ortheris  says,  "'e  didn't 
deserve  consideration."  He  was  out  in  India  for  three 
months  collecting  materials  for  a  book  on  aOur  Eastern 
Impedimenta,"  and  quartering  himself  upon  everybody, 
like  a  Cossack  in  evening-dress. 

His  particular  vice — because  he  was  a  Radical,  men  said 
— was  having  garrisons  turned  out  for  his  inspection.  He 
would  then  dine  with  the  Officer  Commanding,  and  insult 
him,  across  the  Mess  table,  about  the  appearance  of  the 
troops.  That  was  Benira 's  way. 

He  turned  out  troops  once  too  often.  He  came  to 
Helanthami  Cantonment  on  a  Tuesday.  He  wished  to 
go  shopping  in  the  bazars  on  Wednesday,  and  he  "de- 
sired" the  troops  to  be  turned  out  on  a  Thursday.  On 
— a — Thursday.  The  Officer  Commanding  could  not  well 

93 


94     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

refuse;  for  Benira  was  a  Lord.  There  was  an  indignation 
meeting  of  subalterns  in  the  Mess  Room,  to  call  the  Colo- 
nel pet  names.  • 

"But  the  rale  dimonstrashin,"  said  Mulvaney,  "was  in 
B  comp'ny  barrick;  we  three  headin'  it." 

Mulvaney  climbed  on  to  the  refreshment-bar,  settled 
himself  comfortably  by  the  beer,  and  went  on,  "Whin 
the  row  was  at  ut's  foinest  an'  B  Comp'ny  was  fur  goin'  out 
to  murther  this  man  Thrigg  on  the  p'rade-groun',  Lea- 
royd  here  takes  up  his  helmet  an'  sez — fwhat  was  ut  ye 
said?" 

"Ah  said,"  said  Learoyd,  "gie  us  t'  brass.  Tak  oop  a 
subscripshun,  lads,  for  to  put  off  t'  p'rade,  an'  if  t'  p'rade's 
not  put  off,  ah'll  gie  t'  brass  back  again.  Thot's  wot  ah 
said.  All  B  Comp'ny  knawed  me.  Ah  took  oop  a  big 
subscripshun — fower  rupees  eight  annas  'twas — an'  ah  went 
oot  to  turn  t'  job  over.  Mulvaney  an'  Orth'ris  coom  with 
me." 

"We  three  raises  the  Divil  in  couples  gin'rally,"  ex- 
plained Mulvaney. 

Here  Ortheris  interrupted.  "'Ave  you  read  the  papers?" 
said  he. 

"Sometimes."  I  said. 

"We  'ad  read  the  papers,  an'  we  put  hup  a  faked  decoity, 
a — a  sedukshun." 

"^Mukshin,  ye  cockney,"  said  Mulvaney. 

",4£dukshun  or  jedukshun — no  great  odds.  Any'ow,  we 
arranged  to  taik  an'  put  Mister  Benhira  out  o'  the  way 
till  Thursday  was  hover,  or  'e  too  busy  to  nix  'isself  about 
p'raids.  Hi  was  the  man  wot  said,  We'll  make  a  few 
rupees  off  o'  the  business.' >! 

"We  hild  a  Council  av  War,"  continued  Mulvaney, 
"walkin'  roun'  by  the  Artill'ry  Lines.  I  was  Prisidint, 
Learoyd  was  Minister  av  France,  an'  little  Orth'ris  here 
was" 

"A  bloomin'  Bismarck!    Hi  made  the  'ole  show  pay." 

"This  interferin'  bit  av  a  Benira  man,"  said  Mulvaney, 
"did  the  thrick  for  us  himself;  for,  on  me  sowl,  we  hadn't 
a  notion  av  what  was  to  come  afther  the  next  minut.  He 


THE  THREE  MUSKETEERS  95 

was  shoppin'  in  the  bazar  on  fut.  'Twas  dhrawin'  dusk 
thin,  an'  we  stud  watchin'  the  little  man  hoppin'  in  an' 
out  av  the  shops,  thryin'  to  injuce  the  naygurs  to  medium 
his  bat.  Prisintly,  he  sthrols  up,  his  arrums  full  av  thruck, 
an'  he  sez  in  a  consiquinshal  way,  shticking  out  his  little 
belly,  'Me  good  men,'  sez  he,  'have  ye  seen  the  Kernel's 
b'roosh?'  —  'B'rcosh?'  says  Learoyd.  'There's  no  b'roosh 
here  —  nobbut  a  hekka!  —  'Fwhat's  that?'  sez  Thrigg. 
Learoyd  shows  him  wan  down  the  sthreet,  an'  he  sez,  'How 
thruly  Orientil!  I  will  ride  on  a  hekka!  I  saw  thin  that 
our  Rigimintal  Saint  was  for  givin'  Thrigg  over  to  us  neck 
an'  brisket.  I  purshued  a  hekka,  an'  I  sez  to  the  dhriver- 
divil,  I  sez,  'Ye  black  limb,  there's  a  Sahib  comin'  for  this 
hekka.  He  wants  to  go  jMi  to  the  Padsahi  JhiF  —  'twas 
about  tu  moiles  awa}'  —  'to  shoot  snipe  —  chirria.  You 
dhrive  Jehannum  ke  marfik,  mallum  —  like  Hell?  'Tis  no 
manner  av  use  bukkin'  to  the  Sahib,  bekaze  he  doesn't 
samjao  your  talk.  Av  he  bolos  anything,  just  you  choop 
and  chel.  Dekker?  Go  arsty  for  the  first  ardrr-mile  from 
cantonmints.  Thin,  chel,  Shaitan  ke  marfik,  an'  the  chooper 
you  choops,  an'  the  jildier  you  chels  the  better  kooshy  will 
that  Sahib  be;  an'  here's  a  rupee  for  ye.' 

"The  hekka-man  knew  there  was  somethin'  out  av  the 
common  in  the  air.  He  grinned  an'  sez,  'Bate  achee!  I 
goin'  damn  fast.'  I  prayed  that  the  Kernel's  b'roosh 
wudn't  arrive  till  me  darlin'  Benira  by  the  grace  av  God 
was  undher  weigh.  The  little  man  puts  his  thruck  into  the 
hekka  an'  scuttles  in  like  a  fat  guinea-pig;  niver  offerin' 
us  the  price  av  a  dhrink  for  our  services  in  helpin'  him  home. 
'He's  off  to  the  Padsahi  jhii;  sez  I  to  the  others." 

Ortheris  took  up  the  tale  - 

"Jist  then,  little  Buldoo  kim  up,  'oo  was  the  son  of  one 
of  the  Artillery  grooms  —  'e  would  'av  made  a  'evinly  news- 
paper-boy in  London,  bein'  sharp  an'  fly  to  all  manner  o' 
games.  'E  'ad  bin  watchin'  us  puttin'  Mister  Benhira  into 
'is  temporary  baroush,  an'  'e  sez,  'What  'ave  you  been  been 
a  doin'  of,  Sahibs?'  sez  'e.  Learoyd  'e  caught  'im  by  the 


"Ah  says,"  went  on  Learoyd,  "  'Young  mon,  that  mon's 


96     THE  GREAT  MODERN,  ENGLISH  STORIES 

gooin'  to  have  t'  goons  out  o'  Thursday — to-morrow — an' 
thot's  more  work  for  you,  young  mon.  Now,  sitha,  tak' 
a  tat  an'  a  lookri,  an'  ride  the  domdest  to  t'  Padsahi  Jhil. 
Cotch  thot  there  hekka,  and  tell  t'  driver  iv  your  lingo 
thot  you've  coom  to  tak'  his  place.  T'  Sahib  doesn't 
speak  t'  bat,  an'  he's  a  little  mon.  Drive  t'  hekka  into 
t'  Padsahi  Jhil  into  t'  watter.  Leave  t'  Sahib  theer  an' 
roon  hoam ;  an'  here's  a  rupee  for  thaV  " 

Then  Mulvaney  and  Ortheris  spoke  together  in  alter- 
nate fragments:  Mulvaney  leading  (You  must  pick  out 
the  two  speakers  as  best  you  can) : — "He  was  a  knowin' 
little  divil  was  Bhuldoo, — 'e  sez  bate  achee  an'  cuts — wid 
a  wink  in  his  oi — but  Hi  sez  there's  money  to  be  made — 
an'  I  wanted  to  see  the  ind  ave  the  campaign — so  Hi  says 
we'll  double  hout  to  the  Padsahi  Jhil — an'  save  the  little 
man  from  bein'  dacoited  by  the  murtherin'  Bhuldoo — an* 
turn  hup  like  reskooers  in  a  Vic'oria  Melodrama — so  we 
doubled  for  the  jhil,  an'  prismtly  there  was  the  divil  av  a 
hurroosh  behind  us  an'  three  bhoys  on  grass-cuts'  ponies 
come  by,  poundin'  along  for  the  dear  life — s'elp  me  Bob, 
hif  Bhuldoo  'adn't  raised  a  rig'lar  harmy  of  decoits — to  do 
the  job  in  shtile.  An'  we  ran,  an'  they  ran,  shplittin'  with 
laughin',  till  we  gets  near  the  jhil — and  'ears  sounds  of 
distress  floatin'  molloncolly  on  the  hevenin'  hair.  (Ortheris 
was  growing  poetical  under  the  influence  of  the  beer.  The 
duet  recommenced:  Mulvaney  leading  again.) 

"Thin  we  heard  Bhuldoo,  the  dacoit,  shoutin'  to  the 
hekka  man,  an'  wan  of  the  young  divils  brought  his  stick 
down  on  the  top  av  the  hekka-cover,  an'  Benira  Thrigg  in- 
side howled  'Murther  an'  Death.'  Bhuldoo  takes  the  reins 
and  dhrives  like  mad  for  the  jhil,  havin'  dispersed  the  hekka- 
dhriver — 'oo  cum  up  to  us  an'  e'  sez,  sez  'e,  'That  Sahib's 
nigh  mad  with  funk!  Wot  devil's  work  'ave  you  led  me 
into?' — 'Hall  right,'  sez  we,  'you  catch  that  there  pony  an' 
come  along.  This  Sahib's  been  decoited,  an'  we're  going 
to  resky  'im!'  Says  the  driver,  'Decoits!  Wot  decoits? 
That's  Bhuldoo  the  budmask' — 'Bhuldoo  be  shot,'  sez  we. 
'  Tis  a  woild  dissolute  Pa  than  frum  the  hills.  There's  about 
eight  av  thim  coercin'  the  Sahib.  You  remimber  that  an' 


THE  THREE  MUSKETEERS  97 

you'll  get  another  rupee!'  Thin  we  heard  the  whop-whop- 
whop  av  the  hekka  turnin'  over,  an'  a  splash  av  water  an' 
trie  voice  av  Benira  Thrigg  callin'  upon  God  to  forgive  his 
sins — an'  Bhuldoo  an'  'is  friends  squotterin'  in  the  water 
like  boys  in  the  Serpentine." 

Here  the  three  musketeers  retired  simultaneously  into  the 
beer. 

"Well?     What  came  next?"  said  I. 

"Fwhat  nex'?"  answered  Mulvaney,  wiping  his  mouth. 
"Wud  ye  let  three  bould  sodgerbhoys  lave  the  ornamint 
av  the  House  av  Lords  to  be  dhrowned  an'  dacoited  in 
a  jhil?  We  formed  line  av  quarther-column  an'  we  discinded 
upon  the  inimy.  For  the  better  part  av  tin  minutes  you 
could  not  hear  yerself  spake.  The  tattoo  was  screamin' 
in  chune  wid  Benira  Thrigg  an'  Bhuldoo's  army,  an'  the 
shticks  was  whistlin'  roun'  the  hekka,  an'  Orth'ris  was  beatin' 
the  hekka-cover  wid  his  fists,  an'  Learoyd  yellin'  'Look 
out  for  their  knives!'  an'  me  cuttin'  into  the  dark,  right 
an'  lef,  disphersin'  arrmy  corps  av  Pathans.  Holy  Mother 
av  Moses!  'Twas  more  disp'rit  than  Ahmid  Kheyl 
wid  Maiwund  thrown  in.  Afther  a  while  Bhuldoo  an'  his 
bhoys  flees.  Have  ye  iver  seen  a  rale  live  Lord  thryin'  to 
hide  his  nobility  undher  a  fut  an'  a  half  av  brown  swamp- 
wather?  'Tis  the  livin'  image  av  a  water-carrier's  goat- 
skin wid  the  shivers.  It  tuk  toime  to  pershuade  me  f rind 
Benira  he  was  not  disimbowilled :  an'  more  toime  to  get 
out  the  hekka.  The  dhriver  come  up  afther  the  battle, 
swearin'  he  tuk  a  hand  in  repulsin'  the  inimy.  Benira  was 
sick  wid  the  fear.  We  escorted  him  back,  very  slow,  to 
cantonmints,  for  that  an'  the  chill  to  soak  into  him.  It 
suk?  Glory  be  to  the  Rigimintil  Saint,  but  it  suk  to  the 
marrow  av  Lord  Benira  Thrigg!" 

Here  Ortheris,  slowly,  with  immense  pride — "'E  sez,  'You 
bar  my  noble  preservers,'  sez  'e.  'You  har  a  7/onour  to  the 
British  Harmy,'  sez  'e.  With  that  'e  describes  the  hawful 
band  of  dacoits  wot  set  on  'im.  Ther  was  about  forty  of 
'em  an'  'e  was  hoverpowered  by  numbers,  so  'e  was;  but  'e 
never  lorst  'is  presence  of  mind,  so  'e  didn't.  'E  guv  the 
hekka-driver  five  rupees  for  'is  noble  assistance,  an'  'e  said 


98     THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

'e  would  see  to  us  after  'e  'ad  spoken  to  the  Kernul.  For  we 
was  a  //onour  to  the  Regiment,  we  was." 

"An'  we  three,"  said  Mulvaney,  with  a  seraphic  smile, 
"have  dhrawn  the  par-ti-cu-lar  attinshin  av  Bobs  Baha- 
dur more  than  wanst.  But  he's  a  rale  good  little  man  is 
Bobs.  Go  on,  Orth'ris,  my  son." 

"Then  we  leaves  'im  at  the  Kernul's  'ouse,  werry  sick, 
an'  we  cuts  hover  to  B  Comp'ny  barrick  an'  we  sez  we 
'ave  saved  Benira  from  a  bloody  doom,  an'  the  chances 
was  agin  there  bein'  p'raid  on  Thursday.  About  ten  min- 
utes later  come  three  envelicks,  one  for  each  of  us.  S'elp 
me  Bob,  if  the  old  bloke  'adn't  guv  us  a  fiver  apiece — 
sixty- four  rupees  in  the  bazar!  On  Thursday  'e  was  in 
'orspital  recoverin'  from  'is  sanguinary  encounter  with  a 
gang  cf  Pathans,  an'  B  Comp'ny  was  drinkin'  'emselves 
into  Ciink  by  squads.  So  there  never  was  no  Thursday 
)j'raid.  But  the  Kernul,  when  'e  'card  of  our  galliant 
conduct,  'e  sez,  'Hi  know  there's  been  some  devilry  some- 
wheres,'  sez  'e,  'but  I  can't  bring  it  'ome  to  you  three.'  " 

"An'  my  privit  imprisshin  is,"  said  Mulvaney,  getting 
off  the  bar  and  turning  his  glass  upside  down,  "that,  av 
they  had  known  they  wudn't  have  brought  ut  home.  'Tis 
fly  in'  in  the  face,  firstly  av  Nature,  secon'  av  the  Rig'la- 
tions,  an'  third  the  will  av  Terence  Mulvaney,  to  hold 
p'rades  av  Thursdays." 

"Good,  ma  son!"  said  Learoyd;  "but,  young  mon,  what's 
t'  notebook  for?" 

"Let  be,"  said  Mulvaney;  "this  time  next  month  we're 
in  the  Sherapis.  'Tis  immortial  fame  the  gentleman's  goin' 
to  give  us.  But  kape  it  dhark  till  we're  out  av  the  range 
av  me  little  frind  Bobs  Bahadur." 

And  I  have  obeyed  Mulvaney's  order. 


WEE  WILLIE  WINKIE 

BY  RUDYARD  KIPLING 

"An  officer  and  a  gentleman." 

HIS  full  name  was  Percival  William  Williams,  but 
he  picked  up  the  other  name  in  a  nursery-book,  and 
that  v/as    the   end   of   the   christened   titles.     His 
mother's  ayah  called  him  Willie-Baba,  but  as  he  never 
paid  the  faintest  attention  to  anything  that  the  ayah  said, 
her  wisdom  did  not  help  matters. 

His  father  was  the  Colonel  of  the  19 5th,  and  as  soon 
as  Wee  Willie  Winkle  was  old  enough  to  understand  what 
Military  Discipline  meant,  Colonel  Williams  put  h'm  un- 
der it.  There  was  no  other  way  of  managing  the  child. 
When  he  was  good  for  a  week,  he  drew  good-conduct  pay; 
and  when  he  was  bad,  he  was  deprived  of  his  good-conduct 
stripe.  Generally  he  was  bad,  for  India  offers  many  chances 
of  going  wrong  to  little  six-year-olds. 

Children  resent  familiarity  from  strangers,  and  Wee 
Willie  Winkie  was  a  very  particular  child.  Once  he  ac- 
cepted an  acquaintance,  he  was  graciously  pleased  to 
thaw.  He  accepted  Brandis,  a  subaltern  of  the  19  5th, 
on  sight.  Brandis  was  having  tea  at  the  Colonel's, 
and  Wee  Willie  Winkie  entered  strong  in  the  possession 
of  a  good-conduct  badge  won  for  not  chasing  the  hens 
round  the  compound.  He  regarded  Brandis  with  gravity 
for  at  least  ten  minutes,  and  then  delivered  himself  of  his 
opinion. 

"I  like  you,"  said  he  slowly,  getting  off  his  chair  and 
coming  over  to  Brandis.  "I  like  you.  I  shall  call  you 
Coppy,  because  of  your  hair.  Do  you  mind  being  called 
Coppy?  It  is  because  of  ve  hair,  you  know." 

99 


ioo   THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

Here  was  one  of  the  most  embarrassing  of  Wee  Willie 
Winkie's  peculiarities.  He  would  look  at  a  stranger  for 
some  time,  and  then,  without  warning  or  explanation,  would 
give  him  a  name.  And  the  name  stuck.  No  regimental 
penalties  could  break  Wee  Willie  Winkie  of  this  habit. 
He  lost  his  good-conduct  badge  for  christening  the  Com- 
missioner's wife  "Fobs";  but  nothing  that  the  Colonel 
could  do  made  the  Station  forego  the  nickname,  and  Mrs. 
Collen  remained  "Fobs"  till  the  end  of  her  stay.  So 
Brandis  was  christened  "Coppy,"  and  rose,  therefore,  in 
the  estimation  of  the  regiment. 

If  Wee  Willie  Winkie  took  an  interest  in  anyone,  the 
fortunate  man  was  envied  alike  by  the  mess  and  the  rank 
and  file.  And  in  their  envy  lay  no  suspicion  of  self-inter- 
est. "The  Colonel's  son"  was  idolised  on  his  own  merits 
entirely.  Yet  Wee  Willie  Winkie  was  not  lovely.  His 
face  was  permanently  freckled,  as  his  legs  were  permanently 
scratched,  and  in  spite  of  his  mother's  almost  tearful  re- 
monstrances he  had  insisted  upon  having  his  long  yellow 
locks  cut  short  in  the  military  fashion.  "I  want  my  hair 
like  Sergeant  Tummil's,"  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  and,  his 
father  abetting,  the  sacrifice  was  accomplished. 

Three  weeks  after  the  bestowal  of  his  youthful  affections 
on  Lieutenant  Brandis — henceforward  to  be  called  "Coppy" 
for  the  sake  of  brevity — Wee  Willie  Winkie  was  destined 
to  behold  strange  things  and  far  beyond  his  comprehen- 
sion. 

Coppy  returned  his  liking  with  interest.  Coppy  had 
let  him  wear  for  five  rapturous  minutes  his  own  big  sword 
— just  as  tall  as  Wee  Willie  Winkie.  Coppy  had  promised 
him  a  terrier  puppy,  and  Coppy  had  permitted  him  to  wit- 
ness the  miraculous  operation  of  shaving.  Nay,  more — 
Coppy  had  said  that  even  he,  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  would 
rise  in  time  to  the  ownership  of  a  box  of  shiny  knives,  a 
silver  soap-box  and  a  silver-handled  "sputter-brush,"  as 
Wee  Willie  Winkie  called  it.  Decidedly,  there  was  no  one 
except  his  father,  who  could  give  or  take  away  good-con- 
duct badges  at  pleasure,  half  so  wise,  strong,  and  valiant 
as  Coppy  with  the  Afghan  and  Egyptian  medals  on  his 


WEE  WILLIE  WINKIE  101 

breast.  Why,  then,  should  Coppy  be  guilty  of  the  unmanly 
weakness  of  kissing — vehemently  kissing —  a  "big  girl," 
Miss  Allardyce  to  wit?  In  the  course  of  a  morning  ride, 
Wee  Willie  Winkie  had  seen  Coppy  so  doing,  and,  like  the 
gentleman  he  was,  had  promptly  wheeled  round  and  can- 
tered back  to  his  groom,  lest  the  groom  should  also  see. 

Under  ordinary  circumstances  he  would  have  spoken  to 
his  father,  but  he  felt  instinctively  that  this  was  a  matter 
on  which  Coppy  ought  first  to  be  consulted. 

"Coppy,"  shouted  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  reining  up  out- 
side that  subaltern's  bungalow  early  one  morning — "I  want 
to  see  you,  Coppy!" 

"Come  in,  young  'un,"  returned  Coppy,  who  was  at  early 
breakfast  in  the  midst  of  his  dogs.  "What  mischief  have 
you  been  getting  into  now?" 

Wee  Willie  Winkie  had  done  nothing  notoriously  bad 
for  three  days,  and  so  stood  on  a  pinnacle  of  virtue. 

"I've  been  doing  nothing  bad,"  said  he,  curling  himself 
into  a  long  chair  with  a  studious  affectation  of  the  Colo- 
nel's languor  after  a  hot  parade.  He  buried  his  freckled* 
nose  in  a  tea-cup  and,  with  eyes  staring  roundly  over  the 
rim,  asked:  "I  say,  Coppy,  is  it  pwoper  to  kiss  big  girls?" 

"By  Jove!  You're  beginning  early.  Who  do  you  want 
to  kiss?" 

"No  one.  My  muvver's  always  kissing  me  if  I  don't  stop 
her.  If  it  isn't  pwcper,  how  was  you  kissing  Major  Allar- 
dyce's  big  girl  last  morning,  by  ve  canal?" 

Coppy 's  brow  wrinkled.  He  and  Miss  Alldardyce  had 
with  great  craft  managed  to  keep  their  engagement  secret 
for  a  fortnight.  There  were  urgent  and  imperative  reasons 
why  Major  Allardyce  should  not  know  how  matters  stood 
for  at  least  another  month,  and  this  small  marplot  had  dis- 
covered a  great  deal  too  much. 

"I  saw  you,"  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie  calmly.  "But  ve 
saL  iidn't  see.  I  said,  'Hut  jao!'  " 

"Oh,  you  had  that  much  sense,  you  young  Rip,"  groaned 
poor  Coppy,  half  amused  and  half  angry.  "And  how  many 
people  may  you  have  told  about  it?" 

"Only  me  myself.    You  didn't  tell  when  I  twied  to  wide 


102   THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

ve  buffalo  ven  my  pony  was  lame ;  and  I  fought  you  wouldn't 
like."  > 

" Winkle, "  said  Coppy  enthusiastically,  shaking  the  small 
hand,  "you're  the  best  of  good  fellows.  Look  here,  you 
can't  understand  all  these  things.  One  of  these  days — 
hang  it,  how  can  I  make  you  see  it! — I'm  going  to  marry 
Miss  Allardyce,  and  then  she'll  be  Mrs.  Coppy,  as  you  say. 
If  your  young  mind  is  so  scandalised  at  the  idea  of  kissing 
big  girls,  go  and  tell  your  father." 

"What  will  happen?"  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  who 
firmly  believed  that  his  father  was  omnipotent. 

"I  shall  get  into  trouble,"  said  Coppy,  playing  his  trump 
card  with  an  appealing  look  at  the  holder  of  the  ace. 

"Ven  I  won't,"  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie  briefly.  "But 
my  faver  says  it's  un-man-ly  to  be  always  kissing,  and  I 
didn't  fink  you'd  do  vat,  Coppy." 

"I'm  not  always  kissing,  old  chap.  It's  only  now  and 
then,  and  when  you're  bigger  you'll  do  it  too.  Your  father 
meant  it's  not  good  for  little  boys." 

"Ah!"  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  now  fully  enlightened. 
"It's  like  ve  sputter-brush?" 

"Exactly,"  said  Coppy  gravely. 

"But  I  don't  fink  I'll  ever  want  to  kiss  big  girls,  nor 
no  one,  'cept  my  muvver.  And  I  must  vat,  you  know." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  broken  by  Wee  Willie  Winkie. 

"Are  you  fond  of  vis  big  girl,  Coppy?" 

"Awfully!"  said  Coppy. 

"Fonder  van  you  are  of  Bell  or  ve  Butcha — or  me?" 

"It's  in  a  different  way,"  said  Coppy.  "You  see,  one  of 
these  days  Miss  Allardyce  will  belong  to  me,  but  you'll 
grow  up  and  command  the  Regiment  and — all  sorts  of 
things.  It's  quite  different,  you  see." 

"Very  well,"  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  rising.  "If  you're 
fond  of  ve  big  girl,  I  won't  tell  anyone.  I  must  go 
now." 

Coppy  rose  and  escorted  his  small  guest  to  the  door, 
adding— "You're  the  best  of  little  fellows,  Winkie.  I  tell 
you  what.  In  thirty  days  from  now  you  can  tell  if  you 
like — tell  anyone  you  like." 


WEE  WILLIE  WINKIE  103 

Thus  the  secret  of  the  Brandis-Allardyce  engagement 
was  dependent  on  a  little  child's  word.  Coppy,  who  knew 
Wee  Willie  Winkie's  idea  of  truth,  was  at  ease,  for  he 
felt  that  he  would  not  break  promises.  Wee  Willie  Winkie 
betrayed  a  special  and  unusual  interest  in  Miss  Allardyce, 
and,  slowly  revolving  round  that  embarrassed  young  lady, 
was  used  to  regard  her  gravely  with  unwinking  eye.  He 
was  trying  to  discover  why  Coppy  should  have  kissed  her. 
She  was  not  half  so  nice  as  his  own  mother.  On  the 
other  hand,  she  was  Coppy's  property,  and  would  in  time 
belong  to  him.  Therefore  it  behooved  him  to  treat  her  with 
as  much  respect  as  Coppy's  big  sword  or  shiny  pistol. 

The  idea  that  he  shared  a  great  secret  in  common  with 
Coppy  kept  Wee  Willie  Winkie  unusually  virtuous  for 
three  weeks.  Then  the  Old  Adam  broke  out,  and  he  made 
what  he  called  a  "camp-fire"  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden. 
How  could  he  have  foreseen  that  the  flying  sparks  would 
have  lighted  the  Colonel's  little  hay-rick  and  consumed  a 
week's  store  for  the  horses?  Sudden  and  swift  was  the 
punishment — deprivation  of  the  good-conduct  badge  and, 
most  sorrowful  of  all,  two  days'  confinement  to  barracks 
— the  house  and  veranda — coupled  with  the  withdrawal 
of  the  light  of  his  father's  countenance. 

He  took  the  sentence  like  the  man  he  strove  to  be,  drew 
himself  up  with  a  quivering  under-lip,  saluted,  and,  once 
clear  of  the  room,  ran  to  weep  bitterly  in  his  nursery — 
called  by  him  "my  quarters."  Coppy  came  in  the  after- 
noon and  attempted  to  console  the  culprit. 

"I'm  under  awwest,"  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie  mourn- 
fully, "and  I  didn't  ought  to  speak  to  you." 

Very  early  the  next  morning  he  climbed  on  to  the  roof 
of  the  house — that  was  not  forbidden — and  beheld  Miss 
Allardyce  going  for  a  ride. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  cried  Wee  Willie  Winkie. 

"Across  the  river,"  she  answered,  and  trotted  forward. 

Now  the  cantonment  in  which  the  19  5th  lay  was  bounded 
on  the  north  by  a  river — dry  in  the  winter.  From  his  earli- 
est years,  Wee  Willie  Winkie  had  been  forbidden  to  go 
across  the  river,  and  had  noted  that  even  Coppy — the  almost 


104   THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

almighty  Coppy — had  never  set  foot  beyond  it.  Wee  Wil- 
lie Winkie  had  once  been  read  to,  out  of  a  big  blue  book, 
the  history  of  the  Princess  and  the  Goblins — a  most  won- 
derful tale  of  a  land  where  the  Goblins  were  always  war- 
ring with  the  children  of  men  until  they  were  defeated  by 
one  Curdie.  Ever  since  that  date  it  seemed  to  him  that 
the  bare  black  and  purple  hills  across  the  river  were  in- 
habited by  Goblins,  and,  in  truth,  everyone  had  said  that 
there  lived  the  Bad  Men.  Even  in  his  own  house  the  lower 
halves  of  the  windows  were  covered  with  green  paper  on 
account  of  the  Bad  Men  who  might,  if  allowed  clear  view, 
fire  into  peaceful  drawing-rooms  and  comfortable  bedrooms. 
Certainly,  beyond  the  river,  which  was  the  end  of  all  the 
Earth,  lived  the  Bad  Men.  And  here  was  Major  Allar- 
dyce's  big  girl,  Coppy's  property,  preparing  to  venture  into 
their  borders!  What  would  Coppy  say  if  anything  hap- 
pened to  her?  If  the  Goblins  ran  off  with  her  as  they  did 
with  Curdie's  Princess?  She  must  at  all  hazards  be  turned 
back. 

The  house  was  still.  Wee  Willie  Winkie  reflected  for  a 
moment  on  the  very  terrible  wrath  of  his  father;  and  then 
— broke  his  arrest!  It  was  a  crime  unspeakable.  The  low 
sun  threw  his  shadow,  very  large  and  very  black,  on  the 
trim  garden-paths,  as  he  went  down  to  the  stables  and 
ordered  his  pony.  It  seemed  to  him  in  the  hush  of  the 
dawn  that  all  the  big  world  had  been  bidden  to  stand  still 
and  look  at  Wee  Willie  Winkie  guilty  of  mutiny.  The 
drowsy  sais  gave  him  his  mount,  and,  since  the  one  great 
sin  made  all  others  insignificant,  Wee  Willie  Winkie  said 
that  he  was  going  to  ride  over  to  Coppy  Sahib,  and  went 
out  at  a  foot-pace,  stepping  on  the  soft  mould  of  the 
flower-borders. 

The  devastating  track  of  the  pony's  feet  was  the  last 
misdeed  that  cut  him  off  from  all  sympathy  of  Human- 
ity. He  turned  into  the  road,  leaned  forward,  and  rode 
as  fast  as  the  pony  could  put  foot  to  the  ground  in  the 
direction  of  the  river. 

But  the  liveliest  of  twelve-two  ponies  can  do  little  against 
the  long  canter  of  a  Waler.  Miss  Allardyce  was  far  ahead, 


WEE  WILLIE  WINKIE  105 

had  passed  through  the  crops,  beyond  the  Police-posts, 
when  all  the  guards  were  asleep,  and  her  mount  was  scat- 
tering the  pebbles  of  the  river-bed  as  Wee  Willie  Winkie 
left  the  cantonment  and  British  India  behind  him.  Bowed 
forward  and  still  flogging,  Wee  Willie  Winkie  shot  into 
Afghan  territory,  and  could  just  see  Miss  Allardyce  a  black 
speck,  flickering  across  the  stony  plain.  The  reason  of 
her  wandering  was  simple  enough.  Coppy,  in  a  tone  of 
too-hastily-assumed  authority,  had  told  her  over  night  that 
she  must  not  ride  out  by  the  river.  And  she  had  gone  to 
prove  her  own  spirit  and  teach  Coppy  a  lesson. 

Almost  at  the  foot  of  the  inhospitable  hills,  Wee  Willie 
Winkie  saw  the  Waler  blunder  and  come  down  heavily. 
Miss  Allardyce  struggled  clear,  but  her  ankle  had  been 
severely  twisted,  and  she  could  not  stand.  Having  fully 
shown  her  spirit,  she  wept,  and  was  surprised  by  the  ap- 
parition of  a  white,  wide-eyed  child  in  khaki,  on  a  nearly 
spent  pony. 

"Are  you  badly,  badly  hurted?"  shouted  Wee  Willie 
Winkie,  as  soon  as  he  was  within  range.  "You  didn't  ought 
to  be  here." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Miss  Allardyce  ruefully,  ignoring 
the  reproof.  "Good  gracious,  child,  what  are  you  doing 
here?" 

"You  said  you  was  going  acwoss  ve  wiver,"  panted  Wee 
Willie  Winkie,  throwing  himself  off  his  pony.  "And  no- 
body— not  even  Coppy — must  go  acwoss  ve  wiver,  and 
I  came  after  you  ever  so  hard,  but  you  wouldn't  stop,  and 
now  you've  hurted  yourself,  and  Coppy  will  be  angwy  wiv 
me,  and — I've  bwoken  my  awwest!  I've  bwoken  my 
awwest!" 

The  future  Colonel  of  the  19 5th  sat  down  and  sobbed. 
In  spite  of  the  pain  in  her  ankle  the  girl  was  moved. 

"Have  you  ridden  all  the  way  from  cantonments,  little 
man?  What  for?" 

"You  belonged  to  Coppy.  Coppy  told  me  so!"  wailed 
Wee  Willie  Winkie  disconsolately.  "I  saw  him  kissing  you, 
and  he  said  he  was  fonder  of  you  van  Bell  or  ve  Butcha 
or  me.  And  so  I  came.  You  must  get  up  and  come  back. 


io6   THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

You  didn't  ought  to  be  here.  Vis  is  a  bad  place,  and  I've 
bwoken  my  awwest." 

"I  can't  move,  Winkie,"  said  Miss  Allardyce,  with  a 
groan.  "I've  hurt  my  foot.  What  shall  I  do?" 

She  showed  a  readiness  to  weep  anew,  which  steadied  Wee 
Willie  Winkie,  who  had  been  brought  up  to  believe  that 
tears  were  the  depth  of  unmanliness.  Still,  when  one  is  as 
great  a  sinner  as  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  even  a  man  may  be 
permitted  to  break  down. 

"Winkie,"  said  Miss  Allardyce,  "when  you've  rested  a 
little,  ride  back  and  tell  them  to  send  out  something  to 
carry  me  back  in.  It  hurts  fearfully." 

The  child  sat  still  for  a  little  time  and  Miss  Allardyce 
closed  her  eyes;  the  pain  was  nearly  making  her  faint. 
She  was  roused  by  Wee  Willie  Winkie  tying  up  the  reins  on 
his  pony's  neck  and  setting  it  free  with  a  vicious  cut  of  his 
whip  that  made  it  whicker.  The  little  animal  headed 
towards  the  cantonments. 

"Oh,  Winkie!     What  are  you  doing?" 

"Hush!"  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie.  "Vere's  a  man  com- 
ing— one  of  ve  Bad  Men.  I  must  stay  wiv  you.  My 
faver  says  a  man  must  always  look  after  a  girl.  Jack  will 
go  home,  and  ven  vey'll  come  and  look  for  us.  Vat's  why 
I  let  him  go." 

Not  one  man  but  two  or  three  had  appeared  from  be- 
hind the  rocks  of  the  hills,  and  the  heart  of  V/ce  Willie 
Winkie  sank  within  him,  for  just  in  this  manner  were  the 
Goblins  wont  to  steal  out  and  vex  Curdie'?  so-0.  Thus 
had  they  played  in  Curdie's  garden,  he  had  s^en  the  pic- 
ture, and  thus  h^d  they  frightened  the  Princess's  nurse. 
He  heard  them  talking  to  each  other,  and  recognised  with 
joy  the  bastard  Pushto  that  he  had  picked  up  from  one  of 
his  father's  grooms  lately  dismissed.  People  who  ^poke  that 
tongue  could  not  be  the  Bad  Men.  They  were  only  natives 
after  all. 

They  came  up  to  the  bowlders  on  which  Miss  Allar- 
dyce's  horse  had  blundered. 

Then  rose  from  the  rock  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  child  of 
the  Dominant  Race,  aged  six  and  three-quarters,  and  said 


WEE  WILLIE  WINKIE  107 

briefly  and  emphatically  "JaoT  The  pony  had  crossed  the 
river-bed. 

The  men  laughed,  and  laughter  from  natives  was  the 
one  thing  Wee  Willie  could  not  tolerate.  He  asked  them 
what  the}-  wanted  and  why  they  did  not  depart.  Other  men 
with  most  evil  faces  and  crooked-stocked  guns  crept  out  of 
the  shadows  of  the  hills,  till,  soon,  Wee  Willie  Winkie  was 
face  to  face  with  an  audience  some  twenty  strong.  Miss 
Allardyce  screamed. 

"Who  are  you?"  said  one  of  the  men. 

"I  am  the  Colonel  Sahib's  son,  and  my  order  is  that 
you  go  at  once.  You  black  men  are  frightening  the  Miss 
Sahib.  One  of  you  must  run  into  cantonments  and  take 
the  news  that  the  Miss  Sahib  has  hurt  herself,  and  that 
the  Colonel's  son  is  here  with  her." 

"Put  our  feet  into  the  trap?"  was  the  laughing  reply. 
"Hear  this  boy's  speech!" 

"Say  that  I  sent  you— I,  the  Colonel's  son.  They  will 
give  you  money." 

"What  is  the  use  of  this  talk?  Take  up  the  child  and 
the  girl,  and  we  can  at  least  ask  for  the  ransom.  Ours  are 
the  villages  on  the  heights,"  said  a  voice  in  the  back- 
ground. 

These  were  the  Bad  Men — worse  than  Goblins — and  it 
needed  all  Wee  Willie  Winkie's  training  to  prevent  him 
from  bursting  into  tears.  But  he  felt  that  to  cry  before 
a  native,  excepting  only  his  mother's  ayah,  would  be  an 
infamy  greater  than  any  mutiny.  Moreover,  he,  as  future 
Colonel  of  the  iQSth,  had  that  grim  regiment  at  his 
back. 

"Are  you  going  to  carry  us  away?"  said  Wee  Willie 
Winkie,  very  blanched  and  uncomfortable. 

"Yes,  my  little  Sahib  Bahadur"  said  the  tallest  of  the 
men,  "and  eat  you  afterwards." 

"That  is  child's  talk,"  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie.  "Men 
do  not  eat  men." 

A  yell  of  laughter  interrupted  him,  but  he  went  on 
firmly — "And  if  you  do  carry  us  away,  I  tell  you  that 
all  my  regiment  will  come  up  in  a  day  and  kill  you  all 


io8   THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

without  leaving  one.     Who  will  take  my  message  to  the 
Colonel  Sahib?" 

Speech  in  any  vernacular — and  Wee  Willie  Winkie  had 
a  colloquial  acquaintance  with  three — was  easy  to  the  boy 
who  could  not  yet  manage  his  "r's"  and  "th's"  aright. 

Another  man  joined  the  conference,  crying:  "O  fool- 
ish men!  What  this  babe  says  is  true.  He  is  the  heart's 
heart  of  those  white  troops.  For  the  sake  of  peace  let 
them  go  both,  for  if  he  be  taken,  the  regiment  will  break 
loose  and  gut  the  valley.  Our  villages  are  in  the.  valley, 
and  we  shall  not  escape.  That  regiment  are  devils.  They 
broke  Khoda  Yar's  breastbone  with  kicks  when  he  tried 
to  take  the  rifles;  and  if  we  touch  this  child  they  will  fire 
and  rape  and  plunder  for  a  month,  till  nothing  remains. 
Better  to  send  a  man  back  to  take  the  message  and  get  a 
reward.  I  say  that  this  child  is  their  God,  and  that  they 
will  spare  none  of  us,  nor  our  women,  if  we  harm  him." 

It  was  Din  Mahommed,  the  dismissed  groom  of  the  Colo- 
nel, who  made  the  diversion,  and  an  angry  and  heated  dis- 
cussion followed.  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  standing  over  Miss 
Allardyce,  waited  the  upshot.  Surely  his  "wegiment,"  his 
own  "wegiment,"  would  not  desert  him  if  they  knew  of  his 
extremity. 

****** 

The  riderless  pony  brought  the  news  to  the  iQSth,  though 
there  had  been  consternation  in  the  Colonel's  household 
for  an  hour  before.  The  little  beast  came  in  through  the 
parade-ground  in  front  of  the  main  barracks,  where  the 
men  were  settling  down  to  play  Spoilfive  till  the  afternoon. 
Devlin,  the  Colour-Sergeant  of  E  Company,  glanced  at  the 
empty  saddle  and  tumbled  through  the  barrack-rooms,  kick- 
ing up  each  Room  Corporal  as  he  passed.  "Up,  ye  beggars! 
There's  something  happened  to  the  Colonel's  son,"  he 
shouted. 

"He  couldn't  fall  off!  S'elp  me,  'e  couldn't  fall  off," 
blubbered  a  drummer-boy.  "Go  an'  hunt  acrost  the  river. 
He's  over  there  if  he's  anywhere,  an'  maybe  those  Pathans 
have  got  'im.  For  the  love  o'  Gawd  don't  look  for  'im  in 
the  nullahs!  Let's  go  over  the  river." 


WEE  WILLIE  WINKIE  109 

"There's  sense  in  Mott  yet,"  said  Devlin.  "E  Com- 
pany, double  out  to  the  river — sharp!" 

So  E  Company,  in  its  shirt-sleeves  mainly,  doubled  for 
the  dear  life,  and  in  the  rear  toiled  the  perspiring  Ser- 
geant, adjuring  it  to  double  yet  faster.  The  cantonment 
was  alive  with  the  men  of  the  igsth  hunting  for  Wee 
Willie  Winkie,  and  the  Colonel  finally  overtook  E  Company, 
far  too  exhausted  to  swear,  struggling  in  the  pebbles  of  the 
river-bed. 

Up  the  hill  under  which  Wee  Willie  Winkie's  Bad  Men 
were  discussing  the  wisdom  of  carrying  off  the  child  and 
the  girl,  a  look-out  fired  two  shots. 

"What  have  I  said?"  shouted  Din  Mahommed.  "There 
is  the  warning!  The  pulton  are  out  already  and  are  com- 
ing across  the  plain!  Get  away!  Let  us  not  be  seen  with 
the  boy!" 

The  men  waited  for  an  instant,  and  then,  as  another 
shot  was  fired,  withdrew  into  the  hills,  silently  as  they 
had  appeared. 

"The  wegiment  is  coming,"  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie  con- 
fidently to  Miss  Allardyce,  "and  it's  all  wight.  Don't  cwy ! " 

He  needed  the  advice  himself,  for  ten  minutes  later,  when 
his  father  came  up,  he  was  weeping  bitterly  with  his  head 
in  Miss  Allardyce's  lap. 

And  the  men  of  the  19 5th  carried  him  home  with  shouts 
and  rejoicings;  and  Coppy,  who  had  ridden  a  horse  into 
a  lather,  met  him,  and,  to  his  intense  disgust,  kissed  him 
openly  in  the  presence  of  the  men. 

But  there  was  balm  for  his  dignity.  His  father  assured 
him  that  not  only  would  the  breaking  of  arrest  be  con- 
doned, but  that  the  good-conduct  badge  would  be  restored 
as  soon  as  his  mother  could  sew  it  on  his  blouse-sleeve. 
Miss  Allardyce  had  told  the  Colonel  a  story  that  made 
him  proud  of  his  son. 

"She  belonged  to  you,  Coppy,"  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie, 
indicating  Miss  Allardyce  with  a  grimy  forefinger.  "I  knew 
she  didn't  ought  to  go  acwoss  ve  wiver,  and  I  knew  ve  wegi- 
ment would  come  to  me  if  I  sent  Jack  home." 

"You're  a  hero,  Winkie,"  said  Coppy — "a  pukka  hero!" 


no   THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

"I  don't  know  what  vat  means,"  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie, 
"but  you  mustn't  call  me  Winkie  any  no  more.  I'm 
Percival  WilPam  WiU'ams." 

And  in  this  manner  did  Wee  Willie  Winkie  enter  into 
his  manhood. 


HOW  GAVIN  BIRSE  PUT  IT  TO 
MAG  LOWNIE 

BY  SIR  J.  M.  BARRIE 

IN  a  wet  day  the  rain  gathered  in  blobs  on  the  road  that 
passed  our  garden.  Then  it  crawled  into  the  cart- 
tracks  until  the  road  was  streaked  with  water.  Lastly, 
the  water  gathered  in  heavy  yellow  pools.  If  the  on-ding 
still  continued,  clods  of  earth  toppled  from  the  garden 
dyke  into  the  ditch. 

On  such  a  day,  wjien  even  the  dulseman  had  gone  into 
shelter,  and  the  women  scudded  by  with  their  wrappers 
over  their  heads,  came  Gavin  Birse  to  our  door.  Gavin, 
who  was  the  Glen  Quharity  post,  was  still  young,  but 
had  never  been  quite  the  same  man  since  some  amateurs 
in  the  glen  ironed  his  back  for  rheumatism.  I  thought 
he  had  called  to  have  a  crack  with  me.  He  sent  his  com- 
pliments up  to  the  attic,  however,  by  Leeby,  and  would 
I  come  and  be  a  witness? 

Gavin  came  up  and  explained.  He  had  taken  off  his 
scarf  and  thrust  it  into  his  pocket,  lest  the  rain  should 
take  the  colour  out  of  it.  His  boots  cheeped,  and  his 
shoulders  had  risen  to  his  ears.  He  stood  steaming  be- 
fore my  fire. 

"If  it's  no  ower  muckle  to  ask  ye,"  he  said,  "I  would 
like  ye  for  a  witness." 

"A  witness!  But  for  what  do  you  need  a  witness, 
Gavin?" 

"I  want  ye,"  he  said,  "to  come  wi'  me  to  Mag's,  and 
be  a  witness." 

Gavin  and  Mag  Lownie  had  been  engaged  for  a  year  or 
more.  Mag  was  the  daughter  of  Janet  Ogilvy,  who  was 
best  remembered  as  the  body  that  took  the  hill  (that  is, 

in 


H2  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

wandered  about  it)  for  twelve  hours  on  the  day  Mr.  Dis- 
hart,  the  Auld  Licht  minister,  accepted  a  call  to  another 
church. 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,  Gavin,"  I  asked,  "that 
.your  marriage  is  to  take  place  to-day?" 

By  the  twist  of  his  mouth  I  saw  that  he  was  only  de- 
ferring a  smile. 

"Far  frae  that,"  he  said. 

"Ah,  then,  you  have  quarrelled,  and  I  am  to  speak  up 
for  you?" 

"Na,  na,"  he  said,  "I  dinna  want  ye  to  do  that  above 
all  things.  It  would  be  a  favour  if  ye  could  gie  me  a  bad 
character." 

This  beat  me,  and,  I  dare  say,  my  face  showed  it. 

"I'm  no  juist  what  ye  would  call  anxious  to  marry  Mag 
noo,"  said  Gavin,  without  a  tremor. 

I  told  him  to  go  on. 

"There's  a  lassie  oot  at  Craigiebuckle,"  he  explained, 
"workin'  on  the  farm — Jeanie  Luke  by  name.  Ye  may 
hae  seen  her?" 

"What  of  her?"  I  asked,  severely. 

"Weel,"  said  Gavin,  still  unabashed,  "I'm  thinkin'  noo  'at 
I  would  rather  hae  her." 

Then  he  stated  his  case  more  fully. 

"Ay,  I  thocht  I  liked  Mag  oncommon  till  I  saw  Jeanie, 
an*  I  like  her  fine  yet,  but  I  prefer  the  other  ane.  That 
state  o'  matters  canna  gang  on  for  ever,  so  I  came  into 
Thrums  the  day  to  settle  't  one  wy  or  another." 

"And  how,"  I  asked,  "do  you  propose  going  about  it? 
It  is  a  somewhat  delicate  business." 

"Ou,  I  see  nae  great  difficulty  in't.  I'll  speir  at  Mag, 
blunt  oot,  if  she'll  let  me  aff .  Yes,  I'll  put  it  to  her 
plain." 

" You're  sure  Jeanie  would  take  you?" 

"Ay;  oh,  there's  nae  fear  o'  that." 

"But  if  Mag  keeps  you  to  your  bargain?" 

"Weel,  in  that  case  there's  nae  harm  done." 

"You  are  in  a  great  hurry,  Gavin?" 

"Ye  may  say  that;  but  I  want  to  be  married.    The  wifie 


HOW  GAVIN  BIRSE  PUT  IT  TO  MAG  LOWNIE    113 

I  lodge  wi'  cannot  last  lang,  an'  I  would  like  to  settle  doon 
in  some  place." 

"So  you  are  on  your  way  to  Mag's  now?" 

"Ay,  we'll  get  her  in  atween  twaP  and  ane." 

"Oh,  yes;  but  why  do  you  want  me  to  go  with  you?" 

"I  want  ye  for  a  witness.  If  she  winna  let  me  aff,  weel 
and  guid ;  and  if  she  will,  it's  better  to  hae  a  witness  in  case 
she  should  go  back  on  her  word." 

Gavin  made  his  proposal  briskly,  and  as  coolly  as  if 
he  were  only  asking  me  to  go  fishing;  but  I  did  not  ac- 
company him  to  Mag's.  He  left  the  house  to  look  for 
another  witness,  and  about  an  hour  afterwards  Jess  saw 
him  pass  with  Tammas  Haggart.  Tammas  cried  in  during 
the  evening  to  tell  us  how  the  mission  prospered. 

"Mind  ye,"  said  Tammas,  a  drop  of  water  hanging  to 
the  point  of  his  nose,  "I  disclaim  all  responsibility  in  the 
business.  I  ken  Mag  weel  for  a  thrifty,  respectable 
woman,  as  her  mither  was  afore  her,  and  so  I  said  to  Gavin 
when  he  came  to  speir  me." 

"Ay,  mony  a  pirn  has  'Lisbeth  filled  to  me,"  said  Hendry, 
settling  down  to  a  reminiscence. 

"No  to  be  ower  hard  on  Gavin,"  continued  Tammas, 
forestalling  Hendry,  "he  took  what  I  said  in  guid  part; 
but  aye  when  I  stopped  speakin'  to  draw  breath,  he  says, 
'The  question  is,  will  ye  come  wi'  me?'  He  was  michty 
made  up  in's  mind." 

"Weel,  ye  went  wi'  him,"  suggested  Jess,  who  wanted 
to  bring  Tammas  to  the  point. 

"Ay,"  said  the  stone-breaker,  "but  no  in  sic  a  hurry 
as  that." 

He  worked  his  mouth  round  and  round,  to  clear  the 
course,  as  it  were,  for  a  sarcasm. 

"Fowk  often  say,"  he  continued,  "'at  am  quick  beyond 
the  ord'nar'  in  seeing  the  humorous  side  o'  things." 

Here  Tammas  paused,  and  looked  at  us. 

"So  ye  are,  Tammas,"  said  Hendry.  "Losh,  ye  mind  hoo 
ye  saw  the  humorous  side  o'  me  wearin'  a  pair  o'  boots 
'at  wisna  marrows!  No,  the  ane  had  a  toe-piece  on,  an' 
the  other  hadna." 


H4  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

"Ye  juist  wore  them  sometimes  when  ye  was  delvin'," 
broke  in  Jess,  "ye  have  as  guid  a  pair  o'  boots  as  ony  in 
Thrums." 

"Ay,  but  I  had  worn  them,"  said  Hendry,  "at  odd 
times  for  mair  than  a  year,  an'  I  had  never  seen  the  humor- 
ous side  o'  them.  Weel,  as  fac  as  death  (here  he  addressed 
me) ,  Tammas  had  juist  seen  them  twa  or  three  times  when 
he  saw  the  humorous  side  o'  them.  Syne  I  saw  their  hu- 
morous side,  too,  but  no  till  Tammas  pointed  it  oot." 

"That  was  naething,"  said  Tammas,  "naething  ava  to 
some  things  I've  done." 

"But  what  aboot  Mag?"  said  Leeby. 

"We  wasna  that  length,  was  we?"  said  Tammas.  "Na, 
we  was  speakin'  aboot  the  humorous  side.  Ay,  wait  a  wee, 
I  didna  mention  the  humorous  side  for  naething." 

He  paused  to  reflect. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said  at  last,  brightening  up,  "I  was  savin' 
to  ye  hoo  quick  I  was  to  see  the  humorous  side  o'  onything. 
Ay,  then,  what  made  me  say  that  was  'at  in  a  clink  (flash) 
I  saw  the  humorous  side  o'  Gavin's  position." 

"Man,  man,"  said  Hendry,  admiringly,  "and  what  is  *t?" 

"Oh,  it's  this,  there's  something  humorous  in  speirin'  a 
woman  to  let  ye  aff  so  as  ye  can  be  married  to  another 
woman." 

"I  daursay  there  is,"  said  Hendry,  doubtfully. 

"Did  she  let  him  aff?"  asked  Jess,  taking  the  words  out 
of  Leeby's  mouth. 

"I'm  comin'  to  that,"  said  Tammas.  "Gavin  proposes 
to  me  after  I  had  ha 'en  my  laugh — " 

"Yes,"  cried  Hendry,  banging  the  table  with  his  fist, 
"it  has  a  humorous  side.  Ye're  richt  again,  Tammas." 

"I  wish  ye  wadna  blatter  (beat)  the  table,"  said  Jess, 
and  then  Tammas  proceeded. 

"Gavin  wanted  me  to  tak'  paper  an'  ink  an'  a  pen  wi' 
me,  to  write  the  proceeding  doon,  but  I  said,  'Na,  na,  I'll 
tak'  paper,  but  no  nae  ink  nor  nae  pen,  for  there'll  be  ink 
an'  a  pen  there.'  That  was  what  I  said." 

"An'  did  she  let  him  aff?"  asked  Leeby. 

"Weel,"  said  Tammas,  "aff  we  goes  to  Mag's  hoose,  an' 


HOW  GA  VI N  BIRSE  PUT  IT  TO  MAG  LOWNIE    1 1 5 

sure  enough  Mag  was  in.  She  was  alone,  too;  so  Gavin, 
no  to  waste  time,  juist  sat  doon  for  politeness'  sake,  an* 
syne  rises  up  again;  an'  says  he,  'Marget  Lownie,  I  hae  a 
solemn  question  to  speir  at  ye,  namely  this,  Will  you, 
Marget  Lownie,  let  me,  Gavin  Birse,  aff?' " 

"Mag  would  start  at  that?" 

"Sal,  she  was  braw  an'  cool.  I  thocht  she  maun  hae 
got  wind  o'  his  intentions  aforehand,  for  she  juist  replies, 
quiet-like,  'Hoo  do  ye  want  aff,  Gavin?' ' 

"  'Because,'  says  he,  like  a  book,  'my  affections  has  un- 
dergone a  change.' 

"  'Ye  mean  Jean  Luke,'  says  Mag. 

"  'That  is  wha  I  mean,'  says  Gavin,  very  straitforrard." 

"But  she  didna  let  him  aff,  did  she?" 

"Na,  she  wasna  the  kind.  Says  she,  'I  wonder  to  hear 
ye,  Gavin,  but  am  no  goin'  to  agree  to  naething  o'  that  sort.' 

"  'Think  it  ower,'  says  Gavin. 

:<  'Na,  my  mind's  made  up,'  said  she. 

"  'Ye  would  sune  get  anither  man,'  he  says,  earnestly. 

"  'Hoo  do  I  ken  that?'  she  speirs,  rale  sensibly,  I  thocht, 
for  men's  no  sae  easy  to  get. 

"  'Am  sure  o't,'  Gavin  says,  wi'  michty  conviction  in  his 
voice,  'for  ye 're  bonny  to  look  at,  an'  weel  kent  for  bein' 
a  guid  body.' 

"  'Ay,'  says  Mag,  'I'm  glad  ye  like  me,  Gavin,  for  ye 
have  to  tak  me.' ' 

"ThaUput  a  clincher  on  him,"  interrupted  Hendry. 

"He  was  loth  to  gie  in,"  replied  Tammas,  "so  he  says, 
'Ye  think  am  a  fine  character,  Marget  Lownie,  but  ye're 
very  far  mista'en.  I  wouldna  wonder  but  what  I  was  losin* 
my  place  some  o'  thae  days,  an'  syne  whaur  would  ye  be? 
— Marget  Lownie,'  he  goes  on,  'am  nat'rally  lazy  an'  fond 
o'  the  drink.  As  sure  as  ye  stand  there,  am  a  reg'lar 
deevil!'" 

"That  was  strong  language,"  said  Hendry,  "but  he  would 
be  wantin'  to  fleg  (frighten)  her?" 

"Juist  so,  but  he  didna  manage  't,  for  Mag  says,  'We 
a'  hae  oor  faults,  Gavin,  an'  deevil  or  no  deevil,  ye're  the 
man  for  me!' 


n6  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

"Gavin  thocht  a  bit,"  continued  Tammas,  "an'  syne 
he  tries  her  on  a  new  tack.  'Marget  Lownie,'  he  says, 
*yer  father's  an  auld  man  noo,  an'  he  has  naebody  but 
yersel  to  look  after  him.  I'm  thinkin'  it  would  be  kind  o' 
cruel  or  me  to  tak  ye  awa'  frae  him?'  " 

"Mag  wouldna  be  ta'en  wi'  that;  she  wasna  born  on  a 
Sawbath,"  said  Jess,  using  one  of  her  favorite  sayings. 

"She  wasna/'  answered  Tammas.  "Says  she,  'Hae  nae 
fear  on  that  score,  Gavin;  my  father's  fine  willin'  to  spare 
me!'" 

"An'  that  ended  it?w 

"Ay,  that  ended  it." 

"Did  ye  tak  it  doun  in  writin'?"  asked  Hendry. 

"There  was  nae  need,"  said  Tammas,  handing  round  his 
snuff-mull.  "No,  I  never  touched  paper.  When  I  saw 
the  thing  was  settled,  I  left  them  to  their  coortin'.  They're 
to  tak  a  look  at  Snecky  Hobart's  auld  hoose  the  nicht.  It's 
to  let." 


THE  FISHER  OF  MEN1 

BY  FIONA  MACLEOD 

"But  now  I  have  grown  nothing,  being  all, 

And  the  whole  world  weighs  down  upon  my  heart" 

(Fergus  and  the  Druid.) 

WHEN  old  Sheen  nic  Leoid  came  back  to  the  croft, 
after  she  had  been  to  the  burn  at  the  edge  of  the 
green  airidh,  where  she  had  washed  the  claar  that 
was  for  the  potatoes  at  the  peeling,  she  sat  down  before  the 
peats. 

She  was  white  with  years.  The  mountain  wind  was  chill, 
too,  for  all  that  the  sun  had  shone  throughout  the  midsum- 
mer day.  It  was  well  to  sit  before  the  peat-fire. 

The  croft  was  on  the  slope  of  a  mountain  and  had  the 
south  upon  it.  North,  south,  east,  and  west,  other  great 
slopes  reached  upward  like  hollow  green  waves  frozen  into 
silence  by  the  very  wind  that  curved  them  so,  and  freaked 
their  crests  into  peaks  and  jagged  pinnacles.  Stillness  was 
in  that  place  for  ever  and  ever.  What  though  the  Gor- 
romalt  Water  foamed  down  Ben  Nair,  where  the  croft  was, 
and  made  a  hoarse  voice  for  aye  surrendering  sound  to 
silence?  What  though  at  times  the  stones  fell  from  the 
ridges  of  Ben  Chaisteal  and  Maolmor,  and  clattered  down 
the  barren  declivities  till  they  were  slung  in  the  tangled 
meshes  of  whin  and  juniper?  What  though  on  stormy 
dawns  the  eagle  screamed  as  he  fought  against  the  wind 
that  graved  a  thin  line  upon  the  aged  front  of  Ben  Mulad, 
where  his  eyrie  was:  or  that  the  kestrel  cried  above  the 

1  From  "The  Sin-Eater,"  and  "Washer  of  the  Ford,"  Vol.  II 
of  the  Collected  Edition  of  "Fiona  Macleod"  (William  Sharp). 
Published  by  Duffield  &  Company.  By  permission  of  Mrs.  Wil- 
liam Sharp. 

117 


ii8  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

rabbit-burrows  in  the  strath:  or  that  the  hill-fox  barked,  or 
that  the  curlew  wailed,  or  that  the  scattered  sheep  made 
an  endless  mournful  crying?  What  were  these  but  the 
ministers  of  silence? 

There  was  no  blue  smoke  in  the  strath  except  from  the 
one  turf  cot.  In  the  hidden  valley  beyond  Ben  Nair  there 
was  a  hamlet,  and  nigh  upon  three-score  folk  lived  there; 
but  that  was  over  three  miles  away.  Sheen  nic  Leoid  was 
alone  in  that  solitary  place,  save  for  her  son  Alasdair  M6r 
Og.  "Young  Alasdair"  he  was  still,  though  the  grey  feet 
of  fifty  years  had  marked  his  hair.  Alasclair  Og  he  was 
while  Alasdair  Ruadh  mac  Chalum  mh:c  Leoid,  that  was 
his  father,  lived.  But  when  Alasdair  Ruadh  changed,  and 
Sheen  was  left  a  mourning  woman,  he  that  was  their  son 
was  Alasdair  Og  still. 

She  had  sore  weariness  that  day.  For  all  that,  it  was 
not  the  weight  of  the  burden  that  made  her  go  in  and  out 
of  the  afternoon  sun,  and  sit  by  the  red  glow  of  the  peats, 
brooding  deep. 

When,  nigh  upon  an  hour  later,  Alasdair  came  up  the 
slope,  and  led  the  kye  to  the  byre,  she  did  not  hear  him: 
nor  had  she  sight  of  him,  when  his  shadow  flickered  in  be- 
fore him  and  lay  along  the  floor. 

"Poor  old  woman,"  he  said  to  himself,  bending  his  head 
because  of  the  big  height  that  was  his,  and  he  there  so 
heavy  and  strong,  and  tender,  too,  for  all  the  tangled  black 
beard  and  the  wild  hill-eyes  that  looked  out  under  bristling 
grey-black  eyebrows. 

"Poor  old  woman,  and  she  with  the  tired  heart  that  she 
has.  Aye,  aye,  for  sure  the  weeks  lap  up  her  shadow,  as 
the  sayin'  is.  She  will  be  thinking  of  him  that  is  gone. 
Aye,  or  maybe  the  old  thoughts  of  her  are  goin'  back  on 
their  own  steps,  down  this  glen  an'  over  that  hill  an'  away 
beyont  that  strath,  an'  this  corrie  an'  that  moor.  Well, 
well,  it  is  a  good  love,  that  of  the  mother.  Sure  a  bitter 
pain  it  will  be  to  me  when  there's  no  old  grey  hair  there  to 
stroke.  It's  quiet  here,  terrible  quiet,  God  knows,  to  Him- 
self be  the  blessin'  for  this  an'  for  that;  but  when  she  has 
the  white  sleep  at  last,  then  it'll  be  a  sore  day  for  me,  an' 


THE  FISHER  OF  MEN  119 

one  that  I  will  not  be  able  to  bear  to  hear  the  sheep  callin', 
callin',  callin'  through  the  rain  on  the  hills  here,  and  Gor- 
romalt  Water  an'  no  other  voice  to  be  with  me  on  that  day 
of  the  days." 

She  heard  a  faint  sigh,  and  stirred  a  moment,  but  did  not 
look  round. 

"Muim'-a-ghraidh,  is  it  tired  you  are,  an'  this  so  fine  a 
time,  too?" 

With  a  quick  gesture,  the  old  woman  glanced  at  him. 

"Ah,  child,  is  that  you  indeed?  Well,  I  am  glad  of  that, 
for  I  have  the  trouble  again." 

"What  trouble,  Muim'  ghaolaiche?" 

But  the  old  woman  did  not  answer.  Wearily  she  turned 
her  face  to  the  psat-glow  again. 

Alasdair  seated  himself  on  the  big  wooden  chair  to  her 
right.  For  a  time  he  stayed  silent  thus,  staring  into  the 
red  heart  of  the  peats.  What  was  the  gloom  upon  the 
old  heart  that  he  loved?  What  trouble  was  it? 

At  last  he  rose  and  put  meal  and  water  into  the  iron  pot, 
and  stirred  the  porridge  while  it  seethed  and  sputtered. 
Then  he  poured  boiling  water  upon  the  tea  in  the  brown 
jenny,  and  put  the  new  bread  and  the  sweet-milk  scones 
on  the  rude  deal  board  that  was  the  table. 

"Come,  dear  tired  old  heart,"  he  said,  "and  let  us  give 
thanks  to  the  Being." 

"Blessings  and  thanks,"  she  said,  and  turned  round. 

Alasdair  poured  out  the  porridge,  and  watched  the  steam 
rise.  Then  he  sat  down,  with  a  knife  in  one  hand  and  the 
brown-white  leaf  in  the  other. 

"Oh  God,"  he  said,  in  the  low  voice  he  had  in  the  kirk 
when  the  Bread  and  Wine  were  given — "Oh  God,  be  giving 
us  now  thy  blessing,  and  have  the  thanks.  And  give  us 
peace." 

Peace  there  was  in  the  sorrowful  old  eyes  of  the  mother. 
The  two  ate  in  silence.  The  big  clock  that  was  by  the  bed 
tick-tacked,  tick-tacked.  A  faint  sputtering  came  out  of 
a  peat  that  had  bog-gas  in  it.  Shadows  moved  in  the 
silence,  and  met  and  whispered  and  moved  into  deep,  warm 
darkness.  There  was  peace. 


120  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

There  was  still  a  red  flush  above  the  hills  in  the  west 
when  the  mother  and  son  sat  in  the  ingle  again. 

"What  is  it,  mother-my-heart?"  Alasdair  asked  at  last, 
putting  his  great  red  hand  upon  the  woman's  knee. 

She  looked  at  him'  for  a  moment.  When  she  spoke  she 
turned  away  her  gaze  again. 

"Foxes  have  holes,  and  the  fowls  of  the  air  have  their 
places  of  rest,  but  the  Son  of  Man  hath  not  where  to  lay 
his  head." 

"And  what  then,  dear?  Sure,  it  is  the  deep  meaning  you 
have  in  that  grey  old  head  that  I'm  loving  so." 

"Aye,  lennav-aghray,  there  is  meaning  to  my  words.  It 
is  old  I  am,  and  the  hour  of  my  hours  is  near.  I  heard 
a  voice  outside  the  window  last  night.  It  is  a  voice  I 
will  not  be  hearing,  no,  not  for  seventy  years.  It  was 
cradle-sweet,  it  was." 

She  paused,  and  there  was  silence  for  a  time. 

"Well,  dear,,"  she  began  again,  wearily,  and  in  a  low, 
weak  voice,  "it  is  more  tired  and  more  tired  I  am  every 
day  now  this  last  month.  Two  Sabbaths  ago  I  woke,  and 
there  were  bells  in  the  air:  and  you  are  for  knowing  well, 
Alasdair,  that  no  kirk-bells  ever  rang  in  Straith-Nair.  At 
edge  o'  dark  on  Friday,  and  by  the  same  token  the  thir- 
teenth day  it  was,  I  fell  asleep,  and  dreamed  the  mools 
were  on  my  breast,  and  that  the  roots  of  the  white  daisies 
were  in  the  hollows  where  the  eyes  were  that  loved  you, 
Alasdair,  my  son." 

The  man  looked  at  her  with  troubled  gaze.  No  words 
would  come.  Of  what  avail  to  speak  when  there  is  nothing 
to  be  said?  God  sends  the  gloom  upon  the  cloud,  and 
there  is  rain:  God  sends  the  gloom  upon  the  hill,  and  there 
is  mist:  God  sends  the  gloom  upon  the  sun,  and  there  is 
winter.  It  is  God,  too,  sends  the  gloom  upon  the  soul,  and 
there  is  change.  The  swallow  knows  when  to  lift  up  her 
wing  over  against  the  shadow  that  creeps  out  of  the  north: 
the  wild  swan  knows  when  the  smell  of  snow  is  behind  the 
sun:  the  salmon,  lone  in  the  brown  pool  among  the  hills, 
hears  the  deep  sea,  and  his  tongue  pants  for  salt,  and  his 
fins  quiver,  and  he  knows  that  his  time  is  come,  and  that  the 


THE  FISHER  OF  MEN  121 

sea  calls.  The  doe  knows  when  the  fawn  hath  not  yet 
quaked  in  her  belly:  is  not  the  violet  more  deep  in  the 
shadowy  dewy  eyes?  The  woman  knows  when  the  babe 
hath  not  yet  stirred  a  little  hand:  is  not  the  wild-rose  on  her 
cheek  more  often  seen,  and  are  not  the  shy  tears  moist  on 
quiet  hands  in  the  dusk?  How,  then,  shall  the  soul  not 
know  when  the  change  is  nigh  at  last?  Is  it  a  less  thing 
than  a  reed,  which  sees  the  yellow  birch-gold  adrift  on  the 
lake,  and  the  gown  of  the  heather  grow  russet  when  the 
purple  has  passed  into  the  sky,  and  the  white  bog-down 
wave  grey  and  tattered  where  the  loneroid  grows  dark  and 
pungent — which  sees,  and  knows  that  the  breath  of  the 
Death- Weaver  at  the  Pole  is  fast  faring  along  the  frozen 
norland  peaks.  It  is  more  than  a  reed,  it  is  more  than 
a  wild  doe  on  the  hills,  it  is  more  than  a  swallow  lifting 
her  wing  against  the  coming  of  the  shadow,  it  is  more  than 
a  swan  drunken  with  the  savour  of  the  blue  wine  of  the 
waves  when  the  green  Arctic  lawns  are  white  and  still.  It 
is  more  than  these,  which  has  the  Son  of  God  for  brother, 
and  is  clothed  with  light.  God  doth  not  extinguish  at  the 
dark  tomb  what  he  hath  litten  in  the  dark  womb. 

Who  shall  say  that  the  soul  knows  not  when  the  bird  is 
aweary  of  the  nest,  and  the  nest  is  aweary  of  the  wind? 
Who  shall  say  that  all  portents  are  vain  imaginings?  A 
whirling  straw  upon  the  road  is  but  a  whirling  straw:  yet 
the  wind  is  upon  the  cheek  almost  ere  it  is  gone. 

It  was  not  for  Alasdair  Og,  then,  to  put  a  word  upon  the 
saying  of  the  woman  that  was  his  mother,  and  was  age- 
white,  and  could  see  with  the  seeing  of  old  wise  eyes. 

So  all  that  was  upon  his  lips  was  a  sigh,  and  the  poor 
prayer  that  is  only  a  breath  out  of  the  heart. 

"You  will  be  telling  me,  grey  sweetheart,"  he  said  lovingly, 
at  last — "you  will  be  telling  me  what  was  behind  the  word 
that  you  said:  that  about  the  foxes  that  have  holes  for  the 
hiding,  poor  beasts,  and  the  birdeens  wi'  their  nests,  though 
the  Son  o'  Man  hath  not  where  to  lay  his  head?" 

"Aye,  Alasdair,  my  son  that  I  bore  long  syne  an'  that 
I'm  leaving  soon,  I  will  be  for  telling  you  that  thing,  for  I 
am  knowing  what  is  in  the  dark  this  night  o'  the  nights." 


122  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

Old  Sheen  put  her  head  back  wearily  on  the  chair,  and 
let  her  hands  lie,  long  and  white,  palm-downward  upon  her 
knees.  The  peat-glow  warmed  the  dull  grey  that  lurked 
under  her  closed  eyes  and  about  her  mouth,  and  in  the 
furrowed  cheeks.  Alasdair  moved  nearer  and  took  her 
right  hand  in  his,  where  it  lay  like  a  tired  sheep  between 
two  scarped  rocks.  Gently  he  smoothed  her  hand,  and 
wondered  why  so  frail  and  slight  a  creature  as  this  small 
old  wizened  woman  could  have  mothered  a  great  swarthy 
man  like  himself — he  a  man  now,  with  his  two  score  and 
ten  years,  and  yet  but  a  boy  there  at  the  dear  side  of  her. 

"It  was  this  way,  Alasdair-mochree,"  she  went  on  in  her 
low  thin  voice — like  a  wind-worn  leaf,  the  man  that  was  her 
son  thought.  "It  was  this  way.  I  went  down  to  the  burn 
to  wash  the  claar,  and  when  I  was  there  I  saw  a  wounded 
fawn  in  the  bracken.  The  big  sad  eyes  of  it  were  like  those 
of  Maisie,  poor  lass,  when  she  had  the  birthing  that  was 
her  going-call.  I  went  through  the  bracken,  and  down  by 
the  Gorromalt,  and  into  the  Glen  of  the  Willows. 

"And  when  I  was  there,  and  standing  by  the  running 
water,  I  saw  a  man  by  the  stream-side.  He  was  tall,  but 
spare  and  weary:  and  the  clothes  upon  him  were  poor  and 
worn.  He  had  sorrow.  When  he  lifted  his  head  at  me,  I 
saw  the  tears.  Dark,  wonderful,  sweet  eyes  they  were.  His 
face  was  pale.  It  was  not  the  face  of  a  man  of  the  hills. 
There  was  no  red  in  it,  and  the  eyes  looked  in  upon  them- 
selves. He  was  a  fair  man,  with  the  white  hands  that 
a  woman  has,  a  woman  like  the  Bantighearna  of  Glenchais- 
teal  over  yonder.  His  voice,  too,  was  a  voice  like  that:  in 
the  softness,  and  the  sweet,  quiet  sorrow,  I  am  meaning. 

"The  word  that  I  gave  him  was  in  the  English:  for  I 
thought  he  was  like  a  man  out  of  Sasunn,  or  of  the  south- 
lands somewhere.  But  he  answered  me  in  the  Gaelic: 
sweet,  good  Gaelic  like  that  of  the  Bioball  over  there,  to 
Himself  be  the  praise. 

"  'And  it  is  the  way  down  the  Strath  you  are  seeking,' 
I  asked:  'and  will  you  not  be  coming  up  to  the  house 
yonder,  poor  cot  though  it  is,  and  have  a  sup  of  milk,  and 
a  rest  if  it's  weary  you  are?' 


THE  FISHER  OF  MEN  123 

"  'You  are  having  my  thanks  for  that/  he  said,  'and  it 
is  as  though  I  had  both  the  good  rest  and  the  cool  sweet 
drink.  But  I  am  following  the  flowing  water  here/ 

"  'Is  it  for  the  fishing?'  I  asked. 

"  'I  am  a  Fisher,'  he  said,  and  the  voice  of  him  was 
low  and  sad. 

"He  had  no  hat  on  his  head,  and  the  light  that  streamed 
through  a  rowan-tree  was  in  his  long  hair.  He  had  the 
pity  of  the  poor  in  his  sorrowful  grey  eyes. 

"'And  will  you  not  sleep  with  us?'  I  asked  again:  'that 
is,  if  you  have  no  place  to  go  to,  and  are  a  stranger  in  this 
country,  as  I  am  thinking  you  are;  for  I  have  never  had 
sight  of  you  in  the  home-straths  before.' 

"  'I  am  a  stranger,'  he  said,  'and  I  have  no  home,  and 
my  father's  house  is  a  great  way  off.' 

"  'Do  not  tell  me,  poor  man,'  I  said  gently,  for  fear  of 
the  pain,  'do  not  tell  me  if  you  would  fain  not;  but  it  is 
glad  I  will  be  if  you  will  give  me  the  name  you  have.' 

"  'My  name  is  Mac-an-t'-Saoir,'  he  answered  with  the 
quiet  deep  gaze  that  was  his.  And  with  that  he  bowed 
his  head,  and  went  on  his  way,  brooding  deep. 

"Well,  it  was  with  a  heavy  heart  I  turned,  and  went 
back  through  the  bracken.  A  heavy  heart,  for  sure,  and  yet, 
oh  peace  too,  cool  dews  of  peace.  And  the  fawn  was  there: 
healed,  Alasdair,  healed,  and  whinny-bleating  for  its  doe, 
that  stood  on  a  rock  wi'  lifted  hoof  an'  stared  down  the 
glen  to  where  the  Fisher  was. 

"When  I  was  at  the  burnside,  a  woman  came  down  the 
brae.  She  was  fair  to  see,  but  the  tears  were  UDon  her. 

"  'Oh,'  she  cried,  'have  you  seen  a  man  going  this  way?' 

"  'Aye,  for  sure,'  I  answered,  'but  what  man  would  he  be?' 

"  'He  is  called  Mac-an-t'-Saoir." 

"  'Well,  there  are  many  men  that  are  called  Son  of  the 
Carpenter.  What  will  his  own  name  be?' 

"  'losa/  she  said. 

"And  when  I  looked  at  her,  she  was  weaving  the  wavy 
branches  of  a  thorn  near  by,  and  sobbing  low,  and  it  was 
like  a  wreath  or  crown  that  she  made. 

"  'And  who  will  you  be,  poor  woman?'  I  asked. 


i24  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

"  {Oh  my  Son,  my  Son,'  she  said  and  put  her  apron  over 
her  head  and  went  down  into  the  Glen  of  the  Willows,  she 
weeping  sore,  too,  at  that,  poor  woman. 

"So  now,  Alasdair,  my  son,  tell  me  what  thought  you 
have  about  this  thing  that  I  have  told  you.  For  I  know 
well  whom  I  met  on  the  brae  there,  and  who  the  Fisher 
was.  And  when  I  was  at  the  peats  here  once  more  I  sat 
down,  and  my  mind  sank  into  myself.  And  it  is  knowing 
the  knowledge  I  am." 

"Well,  well,  dear,  it  is  sore  tired  you  are.  Have  rest 
now.  But -sure  there  are  many  men  called  Macintyre." 

"Aye,  an*  what  Gael  that  you  know  will  be  for  giving 
you  his  surname  like  that?" 

Alasdair  had  no  word  for  that.  He  rose  to  put  some 
more  peats  on  the  fire.  When  he  had  done  this,  he  gave 
a  cry. 

The  whiteness  that  was  on  the  mother's  hair  was  now  in 
the  face.  There  was  no  blood  there,  or  in  the  drawn  lips. 
The  light  in  the  old,  dim  eyes  was  like  water  after  frost. 

He  took  her  hand  in  his.  Clay-cold  it  was.  He  let  it 
go,  and  it  fell  straight  by  the  chair,  stiff  as  the  cromak 
he  carried  when  he  was  with  the  sheep. 

"Oh  my  God  and  my  God,"  he  whispered,  white  with  the 
awe,  and  the  bitter  cruel  pain. 

Then  it  was  that  he  heard  a  knocking  at  the  door. 

"Who  is  there?"  he  cried  hoarsely. 

"Open,  and  let  me  in."  It  was  a  low,  sweet  voice,  but 
was  that  grey  hour  the  time  for  a  welcome? 

"Go,  but  go  in  peace,  whoever  you  are.  There  is  death 
here." 

"Open,  and  let  me  in." 

At  that,  Alasdair,  shaking  like  a  reed  in  the  wind,  un- 
clasped the  latch.  A  tall  fair  man,  ill-clad  and  weary, 
pale,  too,  and  with  dreaming  eyes,  came  in. 

"Beannachd  Dhe  an  Tigh,"  he  said,  "God's  blessing  on 
this  house;  and  on  all  here." 

"The  same  upon  yourself,"  Alasdair  Said,  with  the  weary 
pain  in  his  voice.  "And  who  will  you  be?  and  forgive  the 
asking." 


TEE  FISHER  OF  MEN  125 

"I  am  called  Mac-an-t'-Saoir,  and  losa  is  the  name  I 
bear — Jesus,  the  Son  of  the  Carpenter." 

"It  is  a  good  name.  And  is  it  good  you  are  seeking  this 
night?" 

"I  am  a  Fisher." 

"Well,  that's  here  an'  that's  there.  But  will  you  go  to 
the  Strath  over  the  hill,  and  tell  the  good  man  that  is  there, 
the  minister,  Lachlan  McLachlan,  thut  old  Sheen  nic  Leoid, 
wife  of  Alasdair  Ruadh,  is  dead." 

"I  know  that,  Alasdair  Og." 

"And  how  will  you  be  knowing  that,  and  my  name  too, 
you  that  are  called  Macintyre?" 

"I  met  the  white  soul  of  Sheen  as  it  went  down  by  the 
Glen  of  the  Willows  a  brief  while  ago.  She  was  singing  a 
glad  song,  she  was.  She  had  green  youth  in  her  eyes.  And 
a  man  was  holding  her  by  the  hand.  It  was  Alasdair 
Ruadh." 

At  that  Alasdair  fell  on  his  knees.  When  he  looked  up 
there  was  no  one  there.  Through  the  darkness  outside  the 
door,  he  saw  a  star  shining  white,  and  leaping  like  a  pulse. 

It  was  three  days  after  that  day  of  shadow  that  Sheen 
nic  Leoid  was  put  under  the  green  turf. 

On  each  night,  Alasdair  Og  walked  in  the  Glen  of  the 
Willows,  and  there  he  saw  a  man  fishing,  though  ever  afar 
off.  Stooping  he  was,  always,  and  like  a  shadow  at  times. 
But  he  was  the  man  that  was  called  losa  Mac-an-t'-Saoir — 
Jesus,  the  Son  of  the  Carpenter. 

And  on  the  night  of  the  earthing  he  saw  the  Fisher 
close  by. 

"Lord  God,"  he  said,  with  the  hush  on  his  voice,  and 
deep  awe  in  his  wondering  eyes:  "Lord  God!" 

And  the  Man  looked  at  him. 

"Night  and  day,  Alasdair  MacAlasdair,"  he  said,  "night 
and  day  I  fish  in  the  waters  of  the  world.  And  these  waters 
are  the  waters  of  grief,  and  the  waters  of  sorrow,  and  the 
waters  of  despair.  And  it  is  the  souls  of  the  living  I  fish 
for.  And  lo,  I  say  this  thing  unto  you,  for  you  shall  not 
see  me  again:  Go  in  peace.  Go  in  peace,  good  soul  of  a 
poor  man,  for  thou  hast  seen  the  Fisher  of  Men." 


QUATTROCENTISTERIA 

(How  Sandra  Botticelli  Saw  Simonetta  in  the  Spring) 

I 
BY  MAURICE  HEWLETT 

UP  at  Fiesole  among  the  olives  and  chestnuts  which 
cloud  the  steeps,  the  magnificent  Lorenzo  was  en- 
tertaining his  guests  on  a  morning  in  April.  The 
olives  were  just  whitening  to  silver;  they  stretched  in  a 
trembling  sea  down  the  slope.  Beyond  lay  Florence,  misty 
and  golden;  and  round  about  were  the  mossy  hills,  cut  sharp 
and  definite  against  a  grey-blue  sky,  printed  with  starry 
buildings  and  sober  ranks  of  cypress.  The  sun  catching 
the  mosaics  of  San  Miniato  and  the  brazen  cross  on  the 
fagade,  made  them  shine  like  sword-blades  in  the  quiver 
of  the  heat  between.  For  the  valley  was  just  a  lake  of  hot 
air,  hot  and  murky — "fever  weather,"  ?nid  the  people  in 
the  streets — with  a  glaring  summer  sun  let  in  between  two 
long  spells  of  fog.  'Twas  unnatural  at  that  season,  via; 
but  the  blessed  Saints  sent  the  weather  and  one  could  only 
be  careful  what  one  was  about  at  sun-down. 

Up  at  the  Villa,  with  brisk  morning  airs  rustling  over- 
head, in  the  cool  shades  of  trees  and  lawns,  it  was  pleasant 
to  lie  still,  watching  these  things,  while  a  silky  young  ex- 
quisite sang  to  his  lute  a  not  too  audacious  ballad  about 
Selvaggia,  or  Becchina  and  the  saucy  Prior  of  Sant'  Onofrio. 
He  sang  well,  too,  that  dark-eyed  boy;  the  girl  at  whose 
feet  he  was  crouched  was  laughing  and  blushing  at  once; 
and,  being  very  fair,  she  blushed  hotly.  She  dared  not 
raise  her  eyes  to  look  into  his,  and  he  knew  it  and  was 
quietly  measuring  his  strength — it  was  quite  a  comedy! 
At  each  wanton  refrain  he  lowered  his  voice  to  a  whisper 

126 


()UAH  KULEN 1  IST&KIA  127 

and  bent  a  little  forward.  And  the  girl's  laughter  became 
hysterical;  she  was  shaking  with  the  effort  to  control  her- 
self. At  last  she  looked  up  with  a  sort  of  sob  in  her 
breath  and  saw  his  mocking  smile  and  the  gleam  of  the 
wild  beast  in  his  eyes.  She  grew  white,  rose  hastily  and 
turned  away  to  join  a  group  of  ladies  sitting  apart.  A 
man  with  a  heavy,  rather  sullen  face  and  a  bush  of  yellow 
hair  falling  over  his  forehead  in  a  wave,  was  standing  aside 
v/atching  all  this.  He  folded  his  arms  and  scowled  under 
his  big  brows;  and  when  the  girl  moved  away  his  eyes  fol- 
lowed her. 

The  lad  ended  his  song  in  a  broad  sarcasm  amid  bursts 
of  laughter  and  applause.  The  Magnificent,  sitting  in  his 
carved  chair,  nursed  his  sallow  face  and  smiled  approval. 
"My  brother  boasts  his  invulnerability,"  he  said,  turning 
to  his  neighbour,  "let  him  look  to  it,  Messer  Cupido  will 
have  him  yet.  Already,  we  can  see,  he  has  been  let  into 
some  of  the  secrets  of  the  bower."  The  man  bowed  and 
smiled  deferentially.  "Signor  Giuliana  has  all  the  qualities 
to  win  the  love  of  ladies,  and  to  retain  it.  Doubtless  he 
awaits  his  destiny.  The  Wise  Man  has  said  that  'Beauty 
.  .  .' "  The  young  poet  enlarged  on  his  text  with  some 
fire  in  his  thin  cheeks,  while  the  company  kept  very  silent. 
It  was  much  to  their  liking;  even  Giuliano  was  absorbed; 
he  sat  on  the  ground  clasping  one  knee  between  his  hands, 
smiling  upwards  into  vacancy,  as  a  man  does  whose  imagina- 
tion is  touched.  Lorenzo  nursed  his  sallow  face  and  beat 
time  to  the  orator's  cadences  with  his  foot;  he,  too,  was  ab- 
stracted and  smiling.  At  the  end  he  spoke:  "Our  Mar- 
silio  himself  has  never  said  nobler  words,  my  Agnolo.  The 
mantle  of  the  Attic  prophet  has  descended  indeed  upon 
this  Florence.  And  Beauty,  as  thou  sayest,  is  from  heaven. 
But  where  shall  it  be  found  here  below,  and  how  dis- 
cerned?" The  man  of  the  heavy  jowl  was  standing  with 
folded  arms,  looking  from  under  his  brows  at  the  group  of 
girls.  Lorenzo  saw  everything;  he  noticed  him.  "Our 
Sandro  will  tell  us  it  is  yonder.  The  Star  of  Genoa  shines 
over  Florence  and  our  poor  little  constellations  are  gone 
out.  Ecco,  my  Sandro,  gravest  and  hardiest  of  painters, 


128  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

go  summon  Madonna  Simonetta  and  her  handmaidens  to 
our  Symposium.  Agnolo  will  speak  further  to  us  of  this 
sovereignty  of  Beauty." 

The  painter  bowed  his  head  and  moved  away. 

A  green  alley  vaulted  with  thick  ilex  and  myrtle  formed 
a  tapering  vista  where  the  shadows  lay  misty  blue  and  pale 
shafts  of  light  pierced  through  fitfully.  At  the  far  end  it 
ran  out  into  an  open  space  and  a  splash  of  sunshine.  A 
marble  Ganymede  with  lifted  arms  rose  in  the  middle  like 
a  white  flame.  The  girls  were  there,  intent  upon  some  com- 
merce of  their  own,  flashing  hither  and  thither  over  the 
grass  in  a  flutter  of  saffron  and  green  and  crimson.  Simon- 
etta— Sandro  could  see — was  a  little  apart,  a  very  tall,  iso- 
lated figure,  clear  and  cold  in  a  recess  of  shade,  standing 
easily,  resting  on  one  hip  with  her  hands  behind  her.  A 
soft,  straight  robe  of  white  clipped  her  close  from  shoulder 
to  heel;  the  lines  of  her  figure  were  thrust  forward  by  her 
poise.  His  eye  followed  the  swell  of  her  bosom  very 
gentle  and  girlish,  and  the  long  folds  of  her  dress  falling 
thence  to  her  knee.  While  she  stood  there,  proud  and  re- 
mote, a  chance  beam  of  the  sun  shone  on  her  head  so  that 
it  seemed  to  burn.  "Heaven  salutes  the  Queen  of  Heaven, 
— Venus  Urania! "  With  an  odd  impulse  he  stopped,  crossed 
himself,  and  then  hurried  on. 

He  told  his  errand  to  her;  having  no  eyes  for  the  others. 

"Signorina — I  am  to  acquaint  her  Serenity  that  the  di- 
vine poet  Messer  Agnolo  is  to  speak  of  the  sovereign  power 
of  beauty;  of  the  Heavenly  Beauty  whereof  Plato  taught, 
as  it  is  believed." 

Simonetta  arched  a  slim  neck  and  looked  down  at  the 
obsequious  speaker,  or  at  least  he  thought  so.  And  he 
saw  how  fair  she  was,  a  creature  how  delicate  and  gracious, 
with  grey  eyes  frank  and  wide,  and  full  red  lips  where  a 
smile  (nervous  and  a  little  wistful,  he  judged,  rather  than 
defiant)  seemed  always  to  hover.  Such  clear-cut,  high 
beauty  made  him  ashamed;  but  her  colouring  (for  he  was 
a  painter)  made  his  heart  beat.  She  was  no  ice-bound 
shadow  of  deity  then!  but  flesh  and  blood;  a  girl — a  child, 
of  timid,  soft  contours,  of  warm  roses  and  blue  veins  laced 


QUATTROCENTISTERIA  129 

in  a  pearly  skin.  After  she  was  crowned  with  a  heavy 
wealth  of  red-gold  hair,  twisted  in  great  coils,  bound  about 
with  pearls,  and  smouldering  like  molten  metal  where  it 
fell  rippling  along  her  neck.  She  dazzled  him,  so  that  he 
could  not  face  her  or  look  further.  His  eyes  dropped.  He 
stood  before  her  moody,  disconcerted. 

The  girls,  who  had  dissolved  their  company  at  his  ap- 
proach, listened  to  what  he  had  to  say  linked  in  knots  of 
twos  and  threes.  They  needed  no  excuses  to  return;  some 
were  philosophers  in  their  way,  philosophers  and  poetesses; 
some  had  left  their  lovers  in  the  ring  round  Lorenzo.  So 
they  went  down  the  green  alley  still  locked  by  the  arms, 
by  the  waist  or  shoulders.  They  did  not  wait  for  Simonetta. 
She  was  a  Genoese,  and  proud  as  the  snow.  Why  did  Giuli- 
ano  love  her?  Did  he  love  her,  indeed?  He  was  bewitched' 
then,  for  she  was  cold,  and  a  brazen  creature  in  spite  of  it. 
How  dare  she  bare  her  neck  so!  Oh!  'twas  Genoese,  "Uo- 
mini  senza  fede  e  donne  senze  vergogna,"  they  quoted  as 
they  ran. 

And  Simonetta  walked  alone  down  the  way  with  her 
head  high;  but  Sandro  stepped  behind,  at  the  edge  of  her 
trailing  white  robe.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  The  poet  was  leaning  against  an  ancient  alabaster 
vase,  soil-stained,  yellow  with  age  and  its  long  sojourn 
in  the  loam,  but  with  traces  of  its  carved  garlands  clinging 
to  it  still.  He  fingered  it  lovingly  as  he  talked.  His  ora- 
tion was  concluding,  and  his  voice  rose  high  and  tremulous; 
there  were  sparks  in  his  hollow  eyes.  .  .  .  "And  as  this 
sovereign  Beauty  is  queen  of  herself,  so  she  is  subject  to 
none  other,  owns  to  no  constraining  custom,  fears  no  re- 
proach of  man.  What  she  wills,  that  has  the  force  of  a  law. 
Being  Beauty,  her  deeds  are  lovely  and  worshipful.  There- 
fore Phryne,  whom  men,  groping  in  darkness  and  the  dull 
ways  of  earth,  dubbed  courtesan,  shone  in  a  Court  of  Law 
before  the  assembled  nobles  of  Athens,  naked  and  undis- 
mayed in  the  blaze  of  her  fairness.  And  Athens  discerned 
the  goddess  and  trembled.  Yes,  and  more;  even  as  Aphro- 
dite, whose  darling  she  was,  arose  pure  from  the  foam,  so  she 
too  came  up  out  of  the  sea  in  the  presence  of  a  host,  and 


130  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

the  Athenians,  seeing  no  shame,  thought  none,  but,  rather, 
reverenced  her  the  more.  For  what  shame  is  it  that  the 
body  of  one  so  radiant  in  clear  perfections  should  be  re- 
vealed? Is  then  the  garment  of  the  soul,  her  very  mould 
and  image,  so  shameful?  Shall  we  seek  to  know  her  es- 
sence by  the  garment  of  a  garment,  or  hope  to  behold  that 
which  really  is  in  the  shadows  we  cast  upon  shadows? 
Shame  is  of  the  brute  dullard  who  thinks  shame.  The  evil 
ever  sees  Evil  glaring  at  him.  Plato,  the  golden-mouthed, 
with  the  soul  of  pure  fire,  has  said  the  truth  of  this  mat- 
ter in  his  De  Republica,  the  fifth  book,  where  he  speaks 
of  young  maids  sharing  the  exercise  of  the  Palaestra,  yea, 
and  the  Olympic  contests  even!  For  he  says,  'Let  the 
wives  of  our  wardens  bare  themselves,  for  their  virtue  will 
be  a  robe;  and  let  them  share  the  toils  of  war  and  defend 
their  country.  And  for  the  man  who  laughs  at  naked* 
women  exercising  their  bodies  for  high  reasons,  his  laughter 
is  a  fruit  of  unripe  wisdom,  and  he  himself  knows  not  what 
he  is  about;  for  that  is  ever  the  best  of  sayings  that  the 
useful  is  the  noble  and  the  hurtful  the  base.'  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  pause.  The  name  of  Plato  had  had  a  strange 
effect  upon  the  company.  You  would  have  said  they  had 
suddenly  entered  a  church  and  had  felt  all  lighter  interests 
sink  under  the  weight  of  the  dim,  echoing  nave.  After  a 
few  moments  the  poet  spoke  again  in  a  quieter  tone,  but 
his  voice  had  lost  none  of  the  unction  which  had  enriched 
it.  ...  "Beauty  is  queen:  by  the  virtue  of  Deity,  whose 
image  she  is,  she  reigns,  lifts  up,  fires.  Let  us  beware  how 
we  tempt  Deity  lest  we  perish  ourselves.  Actaeon  died 
when  he  gazed  unbidden  upon  the  pure  body  of  Artemis; 
but  Artemis  herself  rayed  her  splendour  upon  Endymion, 
and  Endymion  is  among  the  immortals.  We  fall  when  we 
rashly  confront  Beauty,  but  that  Beauty  who  comes  un- 
awares may  nerve  our  souls  to  wing  to  heaven."  He  ended 
on  a  resonant  note,  and  then,  still  looking  out  over  the 
valley,  sank  into  his  seat.  Lorenzo,  with  a  fine  humility, 
got  up  and  kissed  his  thin  hand.  Giuliano  looked  at  Simon- 
etta,  trying  to  recall  her  gaze,  but  she  remained  standing 
in  her  place,  seeing  nothing  of  her  companions.  She  was 


QUATTROCENTISTERIA  131 

thinking  of  something,  frowning  a  little  and  biting  her  lip, 
her  hands  before  her;  her  slim  fingers  twisted  and  locked 
themselves  nervously,  like  a  tangle  of  snakes.  Then  she 
tossed  her  head,  as  a  young  horse  might,  and  looked  at 
Giuliano  suddenly,  full  in  the  eyes.  He  rose  to  meet  her 
with  a  deprecating  smile,  cap  in  hand — but  she  walked  past 
him,  almost  brushing  him  with  her  gown,  but  never  flinch- 
ing her  full  gaze,  threaded  her  way  through  the  group  to 
the  back,  behind  the  poet,  where  Sandro  was.  He  had  seen 
her  coming,  indeed  he  had  watched  her  furtively  through- 
out the  oration,  but  her  near  presence  disconcerted  him 
again — and  he  looked  down.  She  was  strongly  excited  with 
her  quick  resolution;  her  colour  had  risen  and  her  voice 
faltered  when  she  began  to  speak.  She  spoke  eagerly,  run- 
ning her  words  together. 

"Ecco,  Messer  Sandro,"  she  whispered  blushing.  "You 
have  heard  these  sayings.  .  .  .  Who  is  there  in  Florence 
like  me?" 

"There  is  no  one,"  said  Sandro  simply. 

"I  will  be  your  Lady  Venus,"  she  went  on  breathlessly. 
"You  shall  paint  me,  rising  from  the  sea-foam.  .  .  .  The 
Genoese  love  the  sea."  She  was  still  eager  and  defiant; 
her  bosom  rose  and  fell  unchecked. 

"The  Signorina  is  mocking  me;  it  is  impossible;  the  Sig- 
norina  knows  it." 

"Eh,  Madonna!  is  it  so  shameful  to  be  fair — Star  of  the 
Sea»as  your  poets  sing  at  evening?  Do  you  mean  that  I 
dare  not  do  it?  Listen  then,  Signer  Pittore;  to-morrow 
morning  at  mass-time  you  will  come  to  the  Villa  Vespucci 
with  your  brushe?  and  pans  and  you  will  ask  for  Monna 
Simonetta.  Then  you  will  see.  Leave  it  row;  it  is 
settled."  And  she  walked  away  with  her  head  hi  ;h  and  the 
same  superb  smile  on  her  red  lips.  Mockery!  She  was  in 
dead  earnest;  all  her  child's  feelings  were  in  hot  revolt.  These 
women  who  had  whispered  to  each  other,  sniggered  at  her 
dress,  her  white  neck  and  her  free  carriage;  Giuliano  who 
had  presumed  so  upon  her  candour — these  prying,  cen- 
sorious Florentines — she  would  strike  them  dumb  with  her 
amazing  loveliness.  They  sang  her  a  goddess  that  she 


132   THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

might  be  flattered  and  suffer  their  company:  she  would 
show  herself  a  goddess  indeed — the  star  of  her  shining 
Genoa,  where  men  were  brave  and  silent  and  maidens  frank 
like  the  sea.  Yes,  and  then  she  would  withdraw  herself 
suddenly  and  leave  them  forlorn  and  dismayed. 

As  for  Sandro,  he  stood  where  she  had  left  him,  peering 
after  her  with  a  mist  in  his  eyes.  He  seemed  to  be  looking 
over  the  hill-side,  over  the  city  glowing  afar  off  gold  and 
purple  in  the  hot  air,  to  Mont'  Oliveto  and  the  heights, 
where  a  line  of  black  cypresses  stood  about  a  low  white 
building.  At  one  angle  of  the  building  was  a  little  turret 
with  a  belvedere  of  round  arches.  The  tallest  cypress  just 
topped  the  windows.  There  his  eyes  seemed  to  rest. 

II 

At  mass-time  Sandro,  folded  in  his  shabby  green  cloak, 
stepped  into  the  sun  on  the  Ponte  Vecchio.  The  morning 
mists  were  rolling  back  under  the  heat;  you  began  to  see 
the  yellow  line  of  houses  stretching  along  the  turbid  river 
on  the  far  side,  and  frowning  down  upon  it  with  blank, 
mud-stained  faces.  Above,  through  steaming  air.  the  sky 
showed  faintly  blue  and  a  campanile  to  the  right  loomed 
pale  and  uncertain  like  a  ghost.  The  sound  of  innumerable 
bells  floated  over  the  still  city.  Hardly  a  soul  was  abroad; 
here  and  there  a  couple  of  dusty  peasants  were  trudging  in 
with  baskets  of  eggs  and  jars  of  milk  and  oil;  a  boat  passed 
down  to  the  fishing,  and  the  oar  knocked  sleepily  in  the 
rowlock  as  she  cleared  the  bridge.  And  above,  on  the 
heights  of  Mont'  Oliveto,  the  tapering  forms  of  cypresses 
were  faintly  outlined — straight  bars  of  shadow — and  the 
level  ridge  of  a  roof  ran  lightly  back  into  the  soft  shroud. 

Sandro  could  mark  these  things  as  he  stepped  resolutely 
on  to  the  bridge,  crossed  it,  and  went  up  a  narrow  street 
among  the  sleeping  houses.  The  day  held  golden  promise; 
it  was  the  day  of  his  life!  Meantime  the  mist  clung  to 
him  and  nipped  him;  what  had  fate  in  store?  What  was 
to  be  the  issue?  In  the  Piazza  Santo  Spirito,  grey  and  hol- 
low-sounding in  the  chilly  silences,  his  own  footsteps  echoed 


QUA  TTROCENTISTERIA  133 

solemnly  as  he  passed  by  the  door  of  the  great  ragged 
church.  Through  the  heavy  darkness  within  lights  flick- 
ered faintly  and  went;  service  was  not  begun.  A  drab 
crew  of  cripples  lounged  on  the  steps  yawning  and  shiver- 
ing, and  two  country  girls  were  strolling  to  the  mass  with 
brown  arms  round  each  other's  waists.  When  Sandro's 
footfall  clattered  on  the  stones  they  stopped  by  the  door 
looking  after  him  and  laughed  to  see  his  dull  face  and  muf- 
fled figure.  In  the  street  beyond  he  heard  a  bell  jingling, 
hasty,  incessant;  and  soon  a  white-robed  procession  swept 
by  him,  fluttering  vestments,  tapers,  and  the  Host  under 
a  canopy,  silk  and  gold.  Sandro  snatched  at  his  cap  and 
dropped  on  his  knees  in  the  road,  crouching  low  and  mut- 
tering under  his  breath  as  the  vision  went  past.  He  re- 
mained kneeling  for  a  moment  after  it  had  gone,  then 
crossed  himself — forehead,  breast,  lip, — and  hurried  for- 
ward. ...  He  stepped  under  the  archway  into  the  Court. 
There  was  a  youth  with  a  cropped  head  and  swarthy  neck 
lounging  there  teasing  a  spaniel.  As  the  steps  sounded  on 
the  flags  he  looked  up;  the  old  green  cloak  and  clumsy- 
shoes  of  the  visitor  did  not  interest  him;  he  turned  his 
back  and  went  on  with  his  game.  Sandro  accosted  him — 
Was  the  Signcrina  at  the  house?  The  boy  went  on  with 
his  game.  "Eh,  Diavolo!  I  know  nothing  at  all,"  he 
said. 

Sandro  raised  his  voice  till  it  rang  round  the  courtyard. 
"You  will  go  at  once  and  inquire.  You  will  say  to  the 
Signorina  that  Sandro  di  Mariano  Filipepi  the  Florentine 
painter  is  here  by  her  orders;  that  he  waits  her  pleasure 
below." 

The  boy  had  got  up;  he  and  Sandro  eyed  each  other  for 
a  little  space.  Sandro  was  the  taller  and  had  the  glance 
of  a  hawk.  So  the  porter  went.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Presently  with  throbbing  brows  he  stood  on  the 
threshold  of  Simonetta's  chamber.  It  was  the  turret  room 
of  the  villa  and  its  four  arched  windows  looked  through  a 
leafy  tracery  over  towards  Florence.  Sandro  could  see 
down  below  him  in  the  haze  the  glitter  of  the  Arno  and 
the  dusky  dome  of  Brunelleschi  cleave  the  sward  of  the 


134  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

hills  like  a  great  burnished  bowl.  In  the  room  itself  there 
was  tapestry,  the  Clemency  of  Scipio,  with  courtiers  in 
golden  cuirasses  and  tall  plumes,  and  peacocks  and  huge 
Flemish  horses — a  rich  profusion  of  crimson  and  blue 
drapery  and  stout  limbed  soldiery.  On  a  bracket,  above 
a  green  silk  curtain,  was  a  silver  statuette  of  Madonna  and 
the  Bambino  Gesu,  with  a  red  lamp  flickering  feebly  be- 
fore. By  the  windows  a  low  divan  heaped  with  velvet 
cushions  and  skins.  But  for  a  coffer  and  a  prayer  desk 
and  a  curtained  recess  which  enshrined  Simonetta's  bed, 
the  room  looked  wind-swept  and  bare. 

When  he  entered  Simonetta  was  standing  by  the  window 
leaning  her  hand  against  the  ledge  for  support.  She  was 
draped  from  top  to  toe  in  a  rose-coloured  mantle  which 
shrouded  her  head  like  a  nun's  wimple  and  then  fell  in 
heavy  folds  to  the  ground.  She  flushed  as  he  came  in,  but 
saluted  him  with  a  grave  inclination.  Neither  spoke.  The 
silent  greeting,  the  full  consciousness  in  each  of  their  parts, 
gave  a  curious  religious  solemnity  to  the  scene  like  some 
familiar  but  stately  Church  mystery.  Sandro  busied  him- 
self mechanically  with  his  preparations — he  was  a  lover 
and  his  pulse  chaotic,  but  he  had  come  to  paint — and  when 
these  were  done,  on  tip-toe,  as  it  were,  he  looked  timidly 
about  him  round  the  room,  seeking  where  to  pose  her. 
Then  he  motioned  her  with  the  same  reverential,  preoccupied 
air,  silent  still,  to  a  place  under  the  silver  Madonna.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  There  was  a  momentary  quiver  of  withdrawal. 
Simonetta  blushed  vividly  and  drooped  her  eyes  down  to 
her  little  bare  foot  peeping  out  below  the  lines  of  the  rosy 
cloak.  The  cloak's  warmth  shone  on  her  smooth  skin  and 
rayed  over  her  cheeks.  In  her  flowery  loveliness  she  looked 
diaphanous,  ethereal;  and  yet  you  could  see  what  a  child 
she  was,  with  her  bright  audacity,  her  ardour  and  her 
wilfulness  flushing  and  paling  about  her  like  the  dawn. 
There  she  stood  trembling  on  the  brink.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  all  her  waywardness  shot  into  her  eyes;  she 
lifted  her  arms  and  the  cloak  fell  back  like  the  shard  of  a 
young  flower;  then,  delicate  and  palpitating  as  a  silver 
reed,  she  stood  up  in  the  soft  light  of  the  morning,  and  the 


QUA  TTROCENTISTERIA  135 

sun,  slanting  in  between  the  golden  leaves  and  tendrils, 
kissed  her  neck  and  shrinking  shoulder. 

Sandro  stood  facing  her,  moody  and  troubled,  fingering 
his  brushes  and  bits  of  charcoal:  his  shaggy  brows  were 
knit,  he  seemed  to  be  breathing  hard.  He  collected  him- 
self with  an  effort  and  looked  up  at  her  as  she  stood  before 
him  shrinking,  awe-struck,  panting  at  the  thing  she  had 
done.  Their  eyes  met,  and  the  girl's  distress  increased; 
she  raised  her  hand  to  cover  her  bosom;  her  breath  came 
in  short  gasps  from  parted  lips,  but  her  wide  eyes  still 
looked  fixedly  into  his,  with  such  blank  panic  that  a  sud- 
den movement  might  really  have  killed  her.  He  saw  it 
all;  she!  there  'at  his  mercy.  Tears  swam  and  he  trem- 
bled. Ah!  the  gracious  lady!  what  divine  condescension! 
what  ineffable  courtesy!  But  the  artist  in  him  was  awak- 
ened almost  at  the  same  moment;  his  looks  wandered  in 
spite  of  her  piteous  candour  and  his  own  nothingness. 
Sandro  the  poet  would  have  fallen  on  his  face  with  an  "Exi 
a  me,  nam  peccator  sum."  Sandro  the  painter  was  dif- 
ferent— no  mercy  there.  He  made  a  snatch  at  a  carbon 
and  raised  his  other  hand  with  a  kind  of  command — "Holy 
Virgin!  what  a  line!  Stay  as  you  are,  I  implore  you: 
swerve  not  one  hair's  breadth  and  I  have  you  forever!" 
There  was  conquest  in  his  voice. 

So  Simonetta  stood  very  still,  hiding  her  bosom  with 
her  hand,  but  never  took  her  watch  off  the  enemy.  As 
he  ran  blindly  about  doing  a  hundred  urgent  indispensable 
things, — noting  the  lights,  the  line  she  made,  how  her 
arm  cut  across  the  folds  of  the  curtain — she  dogged  him 
with  staring,  fascinated  eyes,  just  as  a  hare,  crouching 
in  her  form,  watches  a  terrier  hunting  round  her  and  waits 
for  the  end. 

But  the  enemy  was  disarmed.  Sandro  the  passionate, 
the  lover,  the  brooding  devotee,  was  gone;  so  was  la  belle 
Simonetta  the  beloved,  the  be-hymned.  Instead,  here  was 
a  fretful  painter,  dashing  lines  and  broad  smudges  of  shade 
on  his  paper,  while  before  him  rose  an  exquisite,  slender, 
swaying  form,  glistening  carnation  and  silver,  and,  over 
all,  the  maddening  glow  of  red-gold  hair.  Could  he  but 


136  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

catch  those  velvet  shadows,  those  delicate,  glossy,  re- 
flected lights!  Body  of  Bacchus!  How  could  he  put  them 
in!  What  a  picture  she  was!  Look  at  the  sun  on  her 
shoulder!  and  her  hair — Christ!  how  it  burned!  It  was  a 
curious  moment.  The  girl  who  had  never  understood  or 
cared  to  understand  this  humble  lover,  guessed  now  that 
he  was  lost  in  the  artist.  She  felt  that  she  was  simply  an 
effect  and  she  resented  it  as  a  crowning  insult.  Her  colour 
rose  again,  her  red  lips  gathered  into  a  pout.  If  Sandro 
had  but  known,  she  was  his  at  that  instant.  He  had  but 
to  drop  the  painter,  throw  down  his  brushes,  set  his  heart 
and  hot  eyes  bare — to  open  his  arms  and  she  would  have 
fled  into  them  and  nestled  there;  so  fierce  was  her  instinct 
just  then  to  be  loved,  she  who  had  always  been  loved! 
But  Sandro  knew  nothing  and  cared  nothing.  He  was  ab- 
sorbed in  the  gracious  lines  of  her  body,  the  lithe  long 
neck,  the  drooping  shoulder,  the  tenderness  of  her  youth; 
and  then  the  grand  open  curve  of  the  hip  and  thigh  on 
which  she  was  poised.  He  drew  them  in  with  a  free  hand 
in  great  sweeping  lines,  eagerly,  almost  angrily;  once  or 
twice  he  broke  his  carbon  and — body  of  a  dog! — he 
snatched  at  another. 

This  lasted  a  few  minutes  only:  even  Simonetta,  with 
all  her  maiden  tremors  still  feverishly  acute,  hardly  no- 
ticed the  flight  of  time;  she  was  so  hot  with  the  feeling 
of  her  wrongs,  the  slight  upon  her  victorious  fairness.  Did 
she  not  know  how  fair  she  was?  She  was  very  angry;  she 
had  been  made  a  fool  of.  All  Florence  would  come  and 
gape  at  the  picture  and  mock  her  in  the  streets  with  bad 
names  and  coarse  gestures  as  she  rode  by.  She  looked  at 
Sandro.  Santa  Maria!  how  hot  he  was!  His  hair  was 
drooping  over  his  eyes!  He  tossed  it  back  every  second! 
And  his  mouth  was  open,  one  could  see  his  tongue  work- 
ing! Why  had  she  not  noticed  that  great  mouth  before? 
'Twas  the  biggest  in  all  Florence.  Oh!  why  had  he  come? 
She  was  frightened,  remorseful,  a  child  again,  with  a 
trembling  pathetic  mouth  and  shrinking  limbs.  And  then 
her  heart  began  to  beat  under  her  slim  fingers.  She 
pressed  them  down  into  her  flesh  to  stay  those  great  mas- 


QUA  TTROCENTISTERIA  137 

terful  throbs.  A  tear  gathered  in  her  eye;  larger  and 
larger  it  grew,  and  then  fell.  A  shining  drop  rested  on  the 
round  of  her  cheek  and  rolled  slowly  down  her  chin  to  her 
protecting  hand,  and  lay  there  half  hidden,  shining  like  a 
rain-drop  between  two  curving  petals  of  a  rose. 

It  was  just  at  that  moment  the  painter  looked  up  from 
his  work  and  shook  his  bush  of  hair  back.  Something  in 
his  sketch  had  displeased  him;  he  looked  up  frowning, 
with  a  brush  between  his  teeth.  When  he  saw  the  tear- 
stained,  distressful,  beautiful  face  it  had  a  strange  effect 
upon  him.  He  dropped  nerveless,  like  a  wounded  man, 
to  his  knees,  and  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands.  "Ah, 
Madonna!  for  the  pity  of  heaven  forgive  me!  forgive  me! 
I  have  sinned,  I  have  done  thee  fearful  wrong;  I,  who 
still  dare  to  love  thee."  He  uncovered  his  face  and  looked 
up  radiant:  his  own  words  had  inspired  him.  "Yes,"  he 
went  on,  with  a  steadfast  smile,  "I,  Sandro,  the  painter, 
the  poor  devil  of  a  painter,  have  seen  thee  and  I  dare  to 
love!"  His  triumph  was  short-lived.  Simonetta  had  grown 
deadly  white,  her  eyes  burned,  she  had  forgotten  herself. 
She  was  tall  and  slender  as  a  lily,  and  she  rose,  shaking, 
to  her  height. 

"Thou  presumest  strangely,"  she  said,  in  a  slow  still 
voice,  "Go!  Go  in  peace!" 

She  was  conqueror.  In  her  calm  scorn,  she  was  like  a 
young  immortal,  some  cold  victorious  Cynthia  whose  chas- 
tity had  been  flouted.  Sandro  was  pale,  too:  he  said  noth- 
ing and  did  not  look  at  her  again.  She  stood  quivering 
with  excitement,  watching  him  with  the  same  intent  alert- 
ness as  he  rolled  up  his  paper  and  crammed  his  brushes  and 
pencils  into  the  breast  of  his  jacket.  She  watched  him 
still  as  he  backed  out  of  the  room  and  disappeared  through 
the  curtains  of  the  archway.  She  listened  to  his  footsteps 
along  the  corridor,  down  the  stair.  She  was  alone  in  the 
silence  of  the  sunny  room.  Her  first  thought  was  for  her 
cloak;  she  snatched  it  up  and  veiled  herself  shivering  as 
she  looked  fearfully  round  the  walls.  And  then  she  flung 
herself  on  the  piled  cushions  before  the  window  and  sobbed 
piteously,  like  an  abandoned  child. 


138  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

The  sun  slanted  in  between  the  golden  leaves  and  ten- 
drils and  played  in  the  tangle  of  her  hair.  .  . 

Ill 

At  ten  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  April  the  twenty-sixth, 
a  great  bell  began  to  toll:  two  beats  heavy  and  slow,  and 
then  silence,  while  the  air  echoed  the  reverberation,  moan- 
ing. Sandro,  in  shirt  and  breeches,  with  bare  feet  spread 
broad,  was  at  work  in  his  garret  on  the  old  bridge.  He 
stayed  his  hand  as  the  strong  tone  struck,  bent  his  head' 
and  said  a  prayer  :N  "Miserere  ei,  Domine;  requiem  eternam 
dona,  Domine;"  the  words  came  out  of  due  order  as  if 
he  was  very  conscious  of  their  import.  Then  he  went  on. 
And  the  great  bell  went  on;  two  beats  together,  and  then 
silence.  It  seemed  to  gather  solemnity  and  a  heavier  mes- 
sage as  he  painted.  Through  the  open  window  a  keen 
draught  of  air  blew  in  with  dust  and  a  scrap  of  shaving 
from  the  Lung'  Arno  down  below;  it  circled  round  his 
workshop,  fluttering  the  sketches  and  rags  pinned  to  the 
walls.  He  looked  out  on  a  bleak  landscape — San  Miniato 
in  heavy  shade,  and  the  white  houses  by  the  river  staring 
like  dead  faces.  A  strong  breeze  was  abroad;  it  whipped 
the  brown  water  and  raised  little  curling  billows,  ragged 
and  white  at  the  edges,  and  tossed  about  snaps  of  surf.  It 
was  cold.  Sandro  shivered  as  he  shut  to  his  casement;  and 
the  stiffening  gale  rattled  at  it  fitfully.  Once  again  it 
thrust  it  open,  bringing  wild  work  among  the  litter  in 
the  room.  He  made  fast  with  the  rain  driving  in  his  face. 
And  above  the  howling  of  the  squall  he  heard  the  sound 
of  the  great  bell,  steady  and  unmoved  as  if  too  full  of  its 
message  to  be  put  aside.  Yet  it  was  coming  to  him  athwart 
the  wind. 

Sandro  stood  at  his  casement  and  looked  at  the  weather — 
beating  rain  and  yeasty  water.  He  counted,  rather  nervous- 
ly, the  pulses  between  each  pair  of  the  bell's  deep  tones. 
He  was  impressionable  to  circumstances,  and  the  coinci- 
dence of  storm  and  passing-bell  awed  him.  .  .  .  "Either 
the  God  of  Nature  suffers  or  the  fabric  of  the  world  is 


QUA  TTROCENTISTERIA  139 

breaking;" — he  remembered  a  scrap  of  talk  wafted  to- 
wards him  (as  he  stood  in  attendance)  from  some  human- 
ist at  Lorenzo's  table  only  yesterday,  above  the  light  laugh- 
ter and  snatches  of  song.  That  breakfast  party  at  the 
Camaldoli  yesterday!  What  a  contrast — the  even  spring 
weather  with  the  sun  in  a  cloudless  sky,  and  now  this  icy 
dead  morning  with  its  battle  of  wind  and  bell,  fighting, 
he  thought, — over  the  failing  breath  of  some  strong  man. 
Man!  God,  more  like.  "The  God  of  Nature  suffers,"  he 
murmured  as  he  turned  to  his  work.  .  .  . 

Simonetta  had  not  been  there  yesterday.  He  had  not 
seen  her,  indeed,  since  that  nameless  day  when  she  had 
first  transported  him  with  the  radiance  of  her  bare  beauty 
and  then  struck  him  down  with  a  level  gaze  from  steel- 
cold  eyes.  And  he  had  deserved  it,  he  had — she  had  said 
— "presumed  strangely."  Three  more  words  only  had  she 
uttered  and  he  had  slunk  out  from  her  presence  like  a  dog. 
What  a  Goddess!  Venus  Urania!  So  she,  too,  might 
have  ravished  a  worshipper  as  he  prayed,  and,  after,  slain 
him  for  a  careless  word.  Cruel?  No,  but  a  Goddess. 
Beauty  had  no  laws;  she  was  above  them.  Agnolo  him- 
self had  said  it,  from  Plato.  .  .  .  Holy  Michael!  What 
a  blast!  Black  and  desperate  weather.  .  .  .  "Either  the 
God  of  Nature  suffers."  .  .  .  God  shield  all  Christian 
souls  on  such  a  day!  .  .  . 

One  came  and  told  him  Simonetta  Vespucci  was  dead. 
Some  fever  had  torn  at  her  and  raced  through  all  her 
limbs,  licking  up  her  life  as  it  passed.  No  one  had  known 
of  it — it  was  so  swift!  But  there  had  just  been  time  to 
fetch  a  priest!  Fra  Matteo,  they  said,  from  the  Carmine, 
had  shrived  her  ('twas  a  bootless  task,  God  knew,  for 
the  child  had  babbled  so,  her  wits  wandered,  look  you),  and 
then  he  had  performed  the  last  office.  One  had  fled  to 
tell  the  Medici.  Giuliano  was  wild  with  grief;  'twas  as 
if  he  had  killed  her  instead  of  the  Spring-ague — but  then, 
people  said  he  loved  her  well!  And  our  Lorenzo  had  bid 
them  swing  the  great  bell  of  the  Duomo — Sandro  had 
heard  it  perhaps? — and  there  was  to  be  a  public  proces- 
sion, and  a  Requiem  sung  at  Santa  Croce  before  they  took 


I4o  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

her  back  to  Genoa  to  lie  with  her  fathers.  Eh!  Bacchus!' 
She  was  fair  and  Giuliano  had  loved  her  well.  'Twas  nat- 
ural enough  then.  So  the  gossip  ran  out  to  tell  his  news 
to  more  attentive  ears,  and  Sandro  stood  in  his  place, 
intoning  softly  "Te  Deum  Laudamus." 

He  understood  it  all.  There  had  been  a  dark  and  aw- 
ful strife — earth  shuddering  as  the  black  shadow  of  death 
swept  by.  Through  tears  now  the  sun  beamed  broad  over 
the  gentle  city  where  she  lay  lapped  in  her  mossy  hills. 
"Lux  eterna  lucet  ei,"  he  said  with  a  steady  smile;  "atque 
lucebit,"  he  added  after  a  pause.  He  had  been  painting 
that  day  an  agonizing  Christ,  red  and  languid,  crowned 
with  thorns.  Some  of  his  own  torment  seems  to  have  en- 
tered it,  for,  looking  at  it  now,  we  see,  first  of  all,  wild 
eyeballs  staring  with  the  mad  earnestness,  the  purposeless 
intensity  of  one  seized  or  "possessed."  He  put  the  panel 
away  and  looked  about  for  something  else,  the  sketch  he 
had  made  of  Simonetta  on  that  last  day.  When  he  had 
found  it  he  rolled  it  straight  and  set  it  on  his  easel.  It 
was  not  the  first  charcoal  study  he  had  made  from  life, 
but  a  brush  drawing  on  dark  paper,  done  in  sepia-wash 
and  the  lights  in  white  lead.  He  stood  looking  into  it 
with  his  hands  clasped.  About  half  a  braccia  high,  faint 
and  shadowy  in  the  pale  tint  he  had  used,  he  saw  her 
there  victim  rather  than  Goddess.  Standing  timidly  and* 
wistfully,  shrinking  rather,  veiling  herself,  maiden-like, 
with  her  hands  and  hair,  with  lips  trembling  and  dewy 
eyes,  she  seemed  to  him  now  an  immortal  who  must  needs 
suffer  for  some  great  end;  live  and  suffer  and  die;  live 
again,  and  suffer  and  die.  It  was  a  doom  perpetual  like 
Demeter's,  to  bear,  to  nurture,  to  lose  and  to  find  her 
Persephone.  She  had  stood  there  immaculate  and  appre- 
hensive, a  wistful  victim.  Three  days  before  he  had  seen 
her  thus;  and  now  she  was  dead.  He  would  see  her  no 
more. 

Ah!  Yes,  once  more  he  would  see  her.    .    .    . 

They  carried  dead  Simonetta  through  the  streets  of 
Florence  with  her  pale  face  uncovered  and  a  crown  of 


QUA  TTROCENTISTERIA  141 

myrtle  in  her  hair.  People  thronging  there  held  their 
breath,  or  wept  to  see  such  still  loveliness;  and  her  poor 
parted  lips  wore  a  patient  little  smile,  and  her  eyelids  were 
pale  violet  and  lay  heavy  to  her  cheek.  White,  like  a 
bride,  with  a  nosegay  of  orange-blossom  and  syringa  at 
her  throat,  she  lay  there  on  her  bed  with  lightly  folded 
hands  and  the  strange  aloofness  and  preoccupation  all  the 
dead  have.  Only  her  hair  burned  about  her  like  a  molten 
copper;  and  the  wreath  of  myrtle  leaves  ran  forward  to 
her  brows  and  leapt  beyond  them  into  a  tongue. 

The  great  procession  swept  forward;  black  brothers  of 
Misericordia,  shrouded  and  awful,  bore  the  bed  or  stalked 
before  it  with  torches  that  guttered  and  flared  sootily  in 
the  dancing  light  of  day.  They  held  the  pick  of  Florence, 
those  scowling  shrouds — Giuliano  and  Lorenzo,  Pazzi,  Tor- 
nabuoni,  Soderini  or  Pulci;  and  behind,  old  Cattaneo,  bat- 
tered with  storms,  walked  heavily,  swinging  his  long  arms 
and  looking  into  the  day's  face  as  if  he  would  try  an- 
other fall  with  Death  yet.  Priests  and  acolytes,  tapers, 
banners,  vestments  and  a  great  silver  Crucifix,  they  drifted 
by,  chanting  the  dirge  for  Simonetta;  and  she,  as  if  for  a 
sacrifice,  lifted  up  on  her  silken  bed,  lay  couched  like  a 
white  flower,  waxen,  imperturbable,  edged  with  the  colour 
of  flame.  .  .  . 

\  ...  Santa  Croce,  the  great  church,  stretched  forward 
beyond  her  into  distances  of  grey  mist  and  cold  spaces  of 
,  light.  Its  bare  vastness  was  damp  like  a  vault.  And  she 
lay  in  the  midst  listless,  heavy-lidded,  apart,  with  the  half- 
smile,  as  it  seemed,  of  some  secret  mirth.  Round  her  the 
great  candles  smoked  and  flickered,  and  mass  was  sung  at 
the  High  Altar  for  her  soul's  repose.  Sandro  stood  alone 
facing  the  shining  altar  but  looking  fixedly  at  Simonetta 
on  her  couch.  He  was  white  and  dry — parched  lips  and 
eyes  that  ached  and  smarted.  Was  this  the  end?  Was  it 
possible,  my  God!  that  the  transparent,  unearthly  thing 
lying  there  so  prone  and  pale  was  dead?  Had  such  love- 
liness aught  to  do  with  life  or  death?  Ah!  sweet  lady, 
dear  heart,  how  tired  she  was,  how  deadly  tired!  From 
where  he  stood  he'  could  see  with  intolerable  anguish  the 


142   THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

sombre  rings  round  her  eyes  and  the  violet  shadows  on 
the  lids,  her  folded  hands  and  the  straight,  meek  line  to 
her  feet.  And  her  poor  wan  face  with  its  wistful,  pitiful 
little  smile  was  turned  half  aside  on  the  delicate  throat, 
as  if  in  a  last  appeal: — "Leave  me  now,  O  Florentines,  to 
my  rest.  I  have  given  you  all  I  had:  ask  no  more.  I  was 
a  young  girl,  a  child;  too  young  for  your  eager  strivings. 
You  have  killed  me  with  your  play ;  let  me  be  now,  let  me 
sleep!"  Poor  child!  Poor  child!  Sandro  was  on  his  knees 
with  his  face  pressed  against  the  pulpit  and  tears  running 
through  his  fingers  as  he  prayed.  .  .  . 

As  he  had  seen  her,  so  he  painted.  As  at  the  beginning 
of  life  in  a  cold  world,  passively  meeting  the  long  trouble 
of  it,  he  painted  her  a  rapt  Presence  floating  evenly  to 
our  earth.  A  grey,  translucent  sea  laps  silently  upon  a 
little  creek  and,  in  the  hush  of  a  still  dawn,  the  myrtles 
and  sedges  on  the  water's  brim  are  quiet.  It  is  a  dream 
in  half  tones  that  he  gives  us,  grey  and  green  and  steely 
blue;  and  just  that,  and  some  homely  magic  of  his  own, 
hint  the  commerce  of  another  world  with  man's  discarded 
domain.  Men  and  women  are  asleep,  and  as  in  an  early 
walk  you  may  startle  the  hares  at  their  play,  or  see  the 
creatures  of  the  darkness — owls  and  night  hawks  and  heavy 
moths — flit  with  fantastic  purpose  over  the  familiar  scene, 
so  here  it  comes  upon  you  suddenly  that  you  have  sur- 
prised Nature's  self  at  her  mysteries;  you  are  let  into  the 
secret;  you  have  caught  the  spirit  of  the  April  woodland 
as  she  glides  over  the  pasture  to  the  copse.  And  that, 
indeed,  was  Sandro's  fortune.  He  caught  her  in  just  such 
a  propitious  hour.  He  saw  the  sweet  wild  thing,  pure  and 
undefined  by  touch  of  earth;  caught  her  in  that  pregnant 
pause  of  time  ere  she  had  lighted.  Another  moment  and 
a  buxom  nymph  of  the  grove  would  fold  her  in  a  rosy 
mantle,  coloured  as  the  earliest  wood-anemones  are.  She 
would  vanish,  we  know,  into  the  daffodils  or  a  bank  of 
violets.  And  you  might  tell  her  presence  there,  or  in  the 
rustle  of  the  myrtles,  or  coo  of  doves  mating  in  the  pines; 
you  might  feel  her  genius  in  the  scent  of  the  earth  or 
the  kiss  of  the  West  wind;  but  you  could  only  see  her  in 


QUA  TTROCENTISTERIA  143 

mid- April,  and  you  should  look  for  her  over  the  sea.    She 
always  comes  with  the  first  warmth  of  the  year. 

But  daily,  before  he  painted,  Sandro  knelt  in  a  dark 
chapel  in  Santa  Croce,  while  a  blue-chinned  priest  said 
mass  for  the  repose  of  Simonetta's  soul. 


THE  STOLEN  BACILLUS 

BY  H.  G.  WELLS 

THIS  again,"  said  the  Bacteriologist,  slipping  a  glass 
slide  under  the  microscope,  "is  a  preparation  of  the 
celebrated  Bacillus  of  cholera — the  cholera  germ." 

The  pale-faced  man  peered  down  the  microscope.  He 
was  evidently  not  accustomed  to  that  kind  of  thing,  and 
held  a  limp  white  hand  over  his  disengaged  eye.  "I  see 
very  little,"  he  said. 

"Touch  this  screw,"  said  the  Bacteriologist;  "perhaps 
the  microscope  is  out  of  focus  for  you.  Eyes  vary  so  much. 
Just  the  fraction  of  a  turn  this  way  or  that." 

"Ah!  now  I  see,"  said  the  visitor.  "Not  so  very  much 
to  see,  after  all.  Little  streaks  and  shreds  of  pink.  And 
yet  these  little  particles,  those  mere  atomies,  might  mul- 
tiply and  devastate  a  city!  Wonderful!" 

He  stood  up,  and  releasing  the  glass  slip  from  the  micro- 
scope, held  it  in  his  hand  towards  the  window.  "Scarcely 
visible,"  he  said,  scrutinising  the  preparation.  He  hesi- 
tated. "Are  these — alive?  Are  they  dangerous  now?" 

"Those  have  been  stained  and  killed,"  said  the  Bac- 
teriologist. "I  wish,  for  my  own  part,  we  could  kill  and 
stain  every  one  of  them  in  the  universe." 

"I  suppose,"  the  pale  man  said  with  a  slight  smile,  "that 
you  scarcely  care  to  have  such  things  about  you  in  the 
living — in  the  active  state?" 

"On  the  contrary,  we  are  obliged  to,"  said  the  Bacteri- 
ologist. "Here,  for  instance *  He  walked  across  the 

room  and  took  up  one  of  several  sealed  tubes.  "Here  is 
the  living  thing.  This  is  a  cultivation  of  the  actual  liv- 
ing disease  bacteria."  He  hesitated.  "Bottled  cholera,  so 
to  speak." 

144 


THE  STOLEN  BACILLUS  145 

A  slight  gleam  of  satisfaction  appeared  momentarily  in 
the  face  of  the  pale  man.  "It's  a  deadly  thing  to  have  in 
your  possession,"  he  said,  devouring  the  little  tube  with 
his  eyes.  The  Bacteriologist  watched  the  morbid  pleasure 
in  his  visitor's  expression.  This  man,  who  had  visited  him 
that  afternoon  with  a  note  of  introduction  from  an  old 
friend,  interested  him  from  the  very  contrast  of  their  dis- 
positions. The  lank  black  hair  and  deep  grey  eyes,  the 
haggard  expression  and  nervous  manner,  the  fitful  yet  keen 
interest  of  his  visitor  were  a  novel  change  from  the  phleg- 
matic deliberations  of  the  ordinary  scientific  worker  with 
whom  the  Bacteriologist  chiefly  associated.  It  was  per- 
haps natural,  with  a  hearer  evidently  so  impressionable 
to  the  lethal  nature  of  his  topic,  to  take  the  most  effective 
aspect  of  the  matter. 

He  held  the  tube  in  his  hand  thoughtfully.  "Yes,  here 
is  the  pestilence  imprisoned.  Only  break  such  a  little  tube 
as  this  into  a  supply  of  drinking-water,  say  to  these  minute 
particles  of  life  that  one  must  needs  stain  and  examine  with 
the  highest  powers  of  the  microscope  even  to  see,  and  that 
one  can  neither  smell  nor  taste — say  to  them,  'Go  forth, 
increase  and  multiply,  and  replenish  the  cisterns/  and 
Death — mysterious,  untraceable  Death,  Death  swift  and 
terrible,  Death  full  of  pain  and  indignity — would  be  re- 
leased upon  this  city,  and  go  hither  and  thither  seeking 
his  victims.  Here  he  would  take  the  husband  from  the 
wife,  here  the  child  from  its  mother,  here  the  statesman 
from  his  duty,  and  here  the  toiler  from  his  trouble.  He 
would  follow  the  water-mains,  creeping  along  streets,  pick- 
ing out  and  punishing  a  house  here  and  a  house  there 
where  they  did  not  boil  their  drinking-water,  creeping  into 
the  wells  of  the  mineral-water  makers,  getting  washed  into 
Salad,  and  lying  dormant  in  ices.  He  would  wait  ready  to 
be  drunk  in  the  horse-troughs,  and  by  unwary  children 
in  the  public  fountains.  He  would  soak  into  the  soil,  to 
reappear  in  springs  and  wells  at  a  thousand  unexpected 
places.  Once  start  him  at  the  water-supply,  and  before 
we  could  ring  him  in  and  catch  him  again  he  would  have 
decimated  the  metropolis." 


146  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

He  stopped  abruptly.  He  had  been  told  rhetoric  was 
his  weakness. 

"But  he  is  quite  safe  here,  you  know — quite  safe." 

The  pale-faced  man  nodded.  His  eyes  shone.  He  cleared 
his  throat.  "These  Anarchist — rascals,"  said  he,  "are  fools, 
blind  fools — to  use  bombs  when  this  kind  of  thing  is  at- 
tainable. I  think " 

A  gentle  rap,  a  mere  light  touch  of  the  fingernails,  was 
heard  at  the  door.  The  Bacteriologist  opened  it.  "Just  a 
minute,  dear,"  whispered  his  wife. 

When  he  re-entered  the  laboratory  his  visitor  was  look- 
ing at  his  watch.  "I  had  no  idea  I  had  wasted  an  hour 
of  your  time,"  he  said.  "Twelve  minutes  to  four.  I  ought 
to  have  left  here  by  half-past  three.  But  your  things  were 
really  too  interesting.  No,  positively,  I  cannot  stop  a  mo- 
ment longer.  I  have  an  engagement  at  four." 

He  passed  out  of  the  room  reiterating  his  thanks,  and 
the  Bacteriologist  accompanied  him  to  the  door,  and  then 
returned  thoughtfully  along  the  passage  to  his  laboratory. 
He  was  musing  on  the  ethnology  of  his  visitor.  Certainly 
the  man  was  not  a  Teutonic  type  nor  a  common  Latin  one. 
"A  morbid  product,  anyhow,  I  am  afraid,"  said  the  Bac- 
teriologist to  himself.  "How  he  gloated  on  those  cultiva- 
tions of  disease-germs!"  A  disturbing  thought  struck  him. 
He  turned  to  the  bench  by  the  vapour-bath,  and  then  Very 
quickly  to  his  writing-table.  Then  he  felt  hastily  in  his 
pockets  and  then  rushed  to  the  door.  "I  may  have  put  it 
down  on  the  hall  table,"  he  said. 

"Minnie!"  he  shouted  hoarsely  in  the  hall. 

"Yes,  dear,"  came  a  remote  voice. 

"Had  I  anything  in  my  hand  when  I  spoke  to  you,  dear, 
just  now?" 

Pause. 

"Nothing,  dear,  because  I  remember " 

"Blue  ruin!"  cried  the  Bacteriologist,  and  incontinently 
ran  to  the  front  door  and  down  the  steps  of  his  house  to 
the  street. 

Minnie,  hearing  the  door  slam  violently,  ran  in  alarm 
to  the  window.  Down  the  street  a  slender  man  was  get- 


THE  STOLEN  BACILLUS  147 

ting  into  a  cab.  The  Bacteriologist,  hatless,  and  in  his 
carpet  slippers,  was  running  and  gesticulating  wildly  to- 
wards this  group.  One  slipper  came  off,  but  he  did  not 
wait  for  it.  "He  has  gone  mad!"  said  Minnie;  "it's 
that  horrid  science  of  his;"  and,  opening  the  window,  would 
have  called  after  him.  The  slender  man,  suddenly  glanc- 
ing round,  seemed  struck  with  the  same  idea  of  mental 
disorder.  He  pointed  hastily  to  the  Bacteriologist,  said 
something  to  the  cabman,  the  apron  of  the  cab  slammed, 
the  whip  swished,  the  horse's  feet  clattered,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment cab,  and  Bacteriologist  hotly  in  pursuit,  had  receded 
up  the  vista  of  the  roadway  and  disappeared  round  the 
corner. 

Minnie  remained  straining  out  of  the  window  for  a  min- 
ute. Then  she  drew  her  head  back  into  the  room  again. 
She  was  dumbfounded.  "Of  course  he  is  eccentric,"  she 
meditated.  "But  running  about  London — in  the  height  of 
the  season,  too— in  his  socks!"  A  happy  thought  struck 
her.  She  hastily  put  her  bonnet  on,  seized  his  shoes,  went 
into  the  hall,  took  down  his  hat  and  light  overcoat  from 
the  pegs,  emerged  upon  the  doorstep,  and  hailed  a  cab 
that  opportunely  crawled  by.  "Drive  me  up  the  road  and 
round  Havelock  Crescent,  and  see  if  we  can  find  a  gentle- 
man running  about  in  a  velveteen  coat  and  no  hat." 

"Velveteen  coat,  ma'am,  and  no  'at.  Very  good,  ma'am." 
And  the  cabman  whipped  up  at  once  in  the  most  matter- 
of-fact  way,  as  if  'he  drove  to  this  address  every  day  in  his 
life. 

Some  few  minutes  later  the  little  group  of  cabmen  and 
loafers  that  collects  round  the 'cabmen's  shelter  at  Haver- 
stock  Hill  were  startled  by  the  passing  of  a  cab  with  a 
ginger-coloured  screw  of  a  horse,  driven  furiously. 

They  were  silent  as  it  went  by,  and  then  as  it  receded 
—"That's  'Any  Tcks.  Wot's  he  got?"  said  the  stout  gen- 
tleman known  as  Old  Tootles. 

"He's  a-using  his  whip,  he  is,  to  rights,"  said  the  'ostler 
boy. 

"Hullo!"  said  poor  old  Tommy  Byles;  "here's  an- 
other bloomin'  loonattic.  Blowed  if  there  ain't." 


148  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

"It's  old  George,"  said  Old  Tootles,  "and  he's  drivin'  a 
loonattic,  as  you  say.  Ain't  he  a-clawin'  out  of  the  keb? 
Wonder  if  he's  after  'Any  'Icks?" 

The  group  round  the  cabmen's  shelter  became  animated. 
Chorus:  "Go  it,  George!"  "It's  a  race."  "You'll  ketch 
'ernl"  "Whip  up!" 

"She's  a  goer,  she  is!"  said  the  ostler  boy. 

"Strike  me  giddy!"  said  Old  Tootles.  "Here!"  I'm 
a-goin'  to  begin  in  a  minute.  Here's  another  comin'.  If 
all  the  kebs  in  Hampstead  ain't  gone  mad  this  morn- 
ing!" 

"It's  a  fieldmale  this  time,"  said  the  ostler  boy. 

"She's  a  followin7  him,"  said  Old  Tootles.  "Usually  the 
other  way  about." 

"What's  she  got  in  her  'and?" 

"Looks  like  a  'igh  'at." 

"What  a  bloomin'  lark  it  is!  Three  to  one  on  old  George," 
said  the  ostler  boy.  "Next!" 

Minnie  went  by  in  a  perfect  roar  of  applause.  She  did 
not  like  it,  but  she  felt  that  she  was  doing  her  duty,  and 
whirled  on  down  Haverstock  Hill  and  Camden  Town  High 
Street,  with  her  eyes  ever  intent  on  the  animated  view  of 
old  George,  who  was  driving  her  vagrant  husband  so  in- 
comprehensively  away  from  her. 

The  man  in  the  foremost  cab  sat  crouched  in  the  corner, 
his  arms  tightly  folded,  and  the  little  tube  that  contained 
such  vast  possibilities  of  destruction  gripped  in  his  hand. 
His  mood  was  a  singular  mixture  of  fear  and  exultation. 
Chiefly  he  was  afraid  of  being  caught  before  he  could  ac- 
complish his  purpose,  but  behind  this  was  a  vaguer  but 
larger  fear  of  the  awfulness  of  his  crime.  But  his  exulta- 
tion far  exceeded  his  fear.  No  Anarchist  before  him  had 
ever  approached  this  conception  of  his.  Ravachol,  Vail- 
lant,  all  those  distinguished  persons  whose  fame  he  had  en- 
vied dwindled  into  insignificance  beside  him.  He  had  only 
to  make  sure  of  the  water-supply,  and  break  the  little  tube 
into  a  reservoir.  How  brilliantly  he  had  planned  it,  forged 
the  letter  of  introduction  and  got  into  the  laboratory,  and 
how  brilliantly  he  had  seized  his  opportunity!  The  world 


THE  STOLEN  BACILLUS  149 

should  hear  of  him  at  last.  All  those  people  who  had 
sneered  at  him,  neglected  him,  preferred  other  people  to  him, 
found  his  company  undesirable,  should  consider  him  at 
last.  Death,  death,  death!  They  had  always  treated  him 
as  a  man  of  no  importance.  All  the  world  had  been  in  a 
conspiracy  to  keep  him  under.  He  would  teach  them  yet 
what  it  is  to  isolate  a  man.  What  was  this  familiar  street? 
Great  Saint  Andrew's  Street,  of  course!  How  fared  the 
chase?  He  craned  out  of  the  cab.  The  Bacteriologist  was 
scarcely  fifty  yards  behind.  That  was  bad.  He  would  be 
caught  and  stopped  yet.  He  felt  in  his  pocket  for  money, 
and  found  half-a-sovereign.  This  he  thrust  up  through  the 
trap  in  the  top  of  the  cab  into  the  man's  face.  "More," 
he  shouted,  "if  only  we  get  away." 

The  money  was  snatched  out  of  his  hand.  "Right  you 
are,"  said  the  cabman,  and  the  trap  slammed,  and  the  lash 
lay  along  the  glistening  side  of  the  horse.  The  cab  swayed, 
and  the  Anarchist,  half-standing  under  the  trap,  put  the 
hand  containing  the  little  glass  tube  upon  the  apron  to  pre- 
serve his  balance.  He  felt  the  brittle  thing  crack,  and  the 
broken  half  of  it  rang  upon  the  floor  of  the  cab.  He  fell 
back  into  the  seat  with  a  curse,  and  stared  dismally  at  the 
two  or  three  drops  of  moisture  on  the  apron. 

He  shuddered. 

"Well!  I  suppose  I  shall  be  the  first.  Phew!  Anyhow, 
I  shall  be  a  Martyr.  That's  something.  But  it  is  a  filthy 
death,  nevertheless.  I  I  wonder  if  it  hurts  as  much  as  they 
say." 

Presently  a  thought  occurred  to  him — he  groped  between 
his  feet.  A  little  drop  was  still  in  the  broken  end  of  the 
tube,  and  he  drank  that  to  make  sure.  It  was  better  to 
make  sure.  At  any  rate,  he  would  not  fail. 

Then  it  dawned  upon  him  that  there  was  no  further 
need  to  escape  the  Bacteriologist.  In  Wellington  Street  he 
told  the  cabman  to  stop,  and  got  out.  He  slipped  on  the 
step,  and  his  head  felt  queer.  It  was  rapid  stuff,  this 
cholera  poison.  He  waved  his  cabman  out  of  existence,  so 
to  speak,  and  stood  on  the  pavement  with  his  arms  folded 
upon  his  breast  awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  Bacteriologist. 


ISO  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

There  was  something  tragic  in  his  pose.  The  sense  of  im- 
minent death  gave  him  a  certain  dignity.  He  greeted  his 
pursuer  with  a  defiant  laugh. 

"Vive  FAnarchie!  You  are  too  late,  my  friend,  I  have 
drunk  it.  The  cholera  is  abroad !" 

The  Bacteriologist  from  his  cab  beamed  curiously  at  him 
through  his  spectacles.  "You  have  drunk  it!  An  Anar- 
chist! I  see  now."  He  was  about  to  say  something  more, 
and  then  checked  himself.  A  smile  hung  in  the  corner  of 
his  mouth.  He  opened  the  apron  of  his  cab  as  if  to  descend, 
at  which  the  Anarchist  waved  him  a  dramatic  farewell  and 
strode  off  towards  Waterloo  Bridge,  carefully  jostling  his 
infected  body  against  as  many  people  as  possible.  The 
Bacteriologist  was  so  preoccupied  with  the  vision  of  him 
that  he  scarcely  manifested  the  slightest  surprise  at  the 
appearance  of  Minnie  upon  the  pavement  with  his  hat  and 
shoes  and  overcoat.  "Very  good  of  you  to  bring  my 
things,"  he  said,  and  remained  lost  in  contemplation  of  the 
receding  figure  of  the  Anarchist. 

"You  had  better  get  in,"  he  said,  still  staring.  Minnie 
felt  absolutely  convinced  now  that  he  was  mad,  and  di- 
rected the  cabman  home  on  her  own  responsibility.  "Put 
on  my  shoes?  Certainly,  my  dear,"  said  he,  as  the  cab 
began  to  turn,  and  hid  the  strutting  black  figure,  now 
small  in  the  distance,  from  his  eyes.  Then  suddenly  some- 
thing grotesque  struck  him,  and  he  laughed.  Then  he  re- 
marked, "It  is  really  very  serious,  though. 

"You  see,  that  man  came  to  my  house  to  see  me,  and  he 
is  an  Anarchist.  No — don't  faint,  or  I  cannot  possibly  tell 
you  the  rest.  And  I  wanted  to  astonish  him,  not  knowing 
he  was  an  Anarchist,  and  took  up  a  cultivation  of  that  new 
species  of  Bacterium  I  was  telling  you  of,  that  infest,  and  I 
think  cause,  the  blue  patches  upon  various  monkeys;  and, 
like  a  fool,  I  said  it  was  Asiatic  cholera.  And  he  ran  away 
with  it  to  poison  the  water  of  London,  and  he  certainly 
might  have  made  things  look  blue  for  this  civilised  city. 
And  now  he  has  swallowed  it.  Of  course,  I  cannot  say 
what  will  happen,  but  you  know  it  turned  that  kitten  blue, 
and  the  three  puppies — in  patches,  and  the  sparrow — bright 


THE  STOLEN  BACILLUS  151 

blue.    But  the  bother  is  I  shall  have  all  the  trouble  and  ex- 
pense of  preparing  some  more. 

"Put  on  my  coat  on  this  hot  day!  Why?  Because  we 
might  meet  Mrs.  Jabber.  My  dear,  Mrs.  Jabber  is  not  a 
draught.  But  why  should  I  wear  a  coat  on  a  hot  day  be- 
cause of  Mrs. ,  Oh!  very  well." 


OLD  MSON 

BY  SIR  ARTHUR  T.  QUILLER-COUCH 

JUDGE  between  me  and  my  guest,  the  stranger  within 
my  gates,  the  man  whom  in  his  extremity  I  clothed 
and  fed. 

I  remember  well  the  time  of  his  coming,  for  it  happened 
at  the  end  of  five  days  and  nights  during  which  the  year 
passed  from  strength  to  age;  in  the  interval  between  the 
swallow's  departure  and  the  redwing's  coming;  when  the 
tortoise  in  my  garden  crept  into  his  winter  quarters,  and  the 
equinox  was  on  us,  with  an  east  wind  that  parched  the 
blood  in  the  trees,  so  that  their  leaves  for  once  knew  no 
gradations  of  red  and  yellow,  but  turned  at  a  stroke  to 
brown  and  crackled  like  tinfoil. 

At  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  the  sixth  day  I  looked 
out.  The  wind  still  whistled  across  the  sky,  but  now  with- 
out the  obstruction  of  any  cloud.  Full  in  front  of  my  win- 
dow Sirius  flashed  with  a  whiteness  that  pierced  the  eye.  A 
little  to  the  right,  the  whole  constellation  of  Orion  was  sus- 
pended clear  over  a  wedgelike  gap  in  the  coast,  wherein 
the  sea  could  be  guessed  rather  than  seen.  And,  travelling 
yet  further,  the  eye  fell  on,  two  brilliant  lights,  the  one 
set  high  above  the  other — the  one  steady  and  a  fiery  red, 
the  other  yellow  and  blazing  intermittently — the  one  Alde- 
B'aranj  the  other  revolving  on  the  lighthouse  top,  fifteen  miles 
away. 

Half-way  up  the  east,  the  moon,  now  in  her  last  quarter 
and  decrepit,  climbed  with  the  dawn  close  at  her  heels.  And 
at  this  hour  they  brought  in  the  Stranger,  asking  if  my 
pleasure  were  to  give  him  clothing  and  hospitality. 

152 


OLD  MSON  153 

Nobody  knew  whence  he  came — except  .that  it  was  from 
the  wind  and  the  night — seeing  that  he  spoke  in  a  strange 
tongue,  moaning  and  making  a  sound  like  the  twittering  of 
birds  in  a  chimney.  But  his  journey  must  have  been  long 
and  painful;  for  his  legs  bent  under  him,  and  he  could  not 
stand  when  they  lifted  him.  So,  finding  it  useless  to  ques- 
tion him  for  the  time,  I  learned  from  the  servants  all  they 
had  to  tell — namely,  that  they  had  come  upon  him,  but  a 
few  minutes  before,  lying  on  his  face  within  my  grounds, 
withouf  C,J  ff  or  scrip,  bareheaded,  spent,  and  crying  feebly 
for  succour  in  his  foreign  tongue;  and  that  in  pity  they 
had  carried  him  in  and  brought  him  to  me. 

Now  for  the  look  of  this  man,  he  seemed  a  century  old, 
being  bald,  extremely  wrinkled,  with  wide  hollows  where  the 
teeth  should  be,  and  the  flesh  hanging  loose  and  flaccid  on 
his  cheek-bones;  and  what  colour  he  had  could  have  come 
only  from  exposure  to  that  bitter  night.  But  his  eyes 
chiefly  spoke  of  his  extreme  age.  They  were  blue  and  deep, 
and  filled  with  the  wisdom  of  years;  and  when  he  turned 
them  in  my  direction  they  appeared  to  look  through  me, 
beyond  me,  and  back  upon  centuries  of  sorrow  and  the  slow 
endurance  of  man,  as  if  his  immediate  misfortune  were  but 
an  inconsiderable  item  in  a  long  list.  They  frightened  me. 
Perhaps  they  conveyed  a  warning  of  that  which  I  was  to 
endure  at  their  owner's  hands.  From  compassion,  I  ordered 
the  servants  to  take  him  to  my  wife,  with  word  that  I 
wished  her  to  set  food  before  him,  and  see  that  it  passed  his 
lips. 

So  much  I  did  for  this  Stranger.  Now  learn  how  he  re- 
warded me. 

He  has  taken  my  youth  from  me,  and  the  most  of  my 
substance,  and  the  love  of  my  wife. 

From  the  hour  when  he  tasted  food  in  my  house,  he  sat 
there  without  hint  of  going.  Whether  from  design,  or  be- 
cause age  and  his  sufferings  had  really  palsied  him,  he  came 
back  tediously  to  life  and  warmth,  nor  for  many  days  pro- 
fessed himself  able  to  stand  erect.  Meanwhile  he  lived  on 
the  best  of  our  hospitality.  My  wife  tended  him,  and  my 


154  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

servants  ran  at  his  bidding;  for  he  managed  early  to  make 
them  understand  scraps  of  his  language,  though  slow  in 
acquiring  ours — I  believe  out  of  calculation,  lest  some  one 
should  inquire  his  business  (which  was  a  mystery)  or  hint 
at  his  departure.  I  myself  often  visited'  the  room  he  had 
appropriated,  and  would  sit  for  an  hour  watching  those 
fathomless  eyes  while  I  tried  to  make  head  or  tail  of  his 
discourse.  When  we  were  alone,  my  wife  and  I  used  to 
speculate  at  times  on  his  probable  profession.  Was  he 
a  merchant — an  aged  mariner — a  tinker,  tailor,  beggar- 
man,  thief?  We  could  never  decide,  and  he  never  dis- 
closed. 

Then  the  awakening  came.  I  sat  one  day  in  the  chair 
beside  his,  wondering  as  usual.  I  had  felt  heavy  of  late, 
with  a  soreness  and  languor  in  my  bones,  as  if  a  dead  weight 
hung  continually  on  my  shoulders,  and  another  rested  on 
my  heart.  A  warmer  color  in  the  Stranger's  cheek  caught 
my  attention ;  and  I  bent  forward,  peering  under  the  pendu- 
lous lids.  His  eyes  were  livelier  and  less  profound.  The 
melancholy  was  passing  from  them  as  breath  fades  off  a 
pane  of  glass.  He  was  growing  younger.  Starting  up,  I 
ran  across  the  room,  to  the  mirror. 

There  were  two  white  hairs  in  my  fore-lock,  and,  at  the 
corner  of  either  eye,  half  a  dozen  radiating  lines.  I  was 
an  old  man. 

Turning,  I  regarded  the  Stranger.  He  sat  phlegmatic  as 
an  Indian  idol;  and  in  my  fancy  I  felt  the  young  blood 
draining  from  my  own  heart,  and  saw  it  mantling  in  his 
cheeks.  Minute  by  minute  I  watched  the  slow  miracle — 
the  old  man  beautified.  As  buds  unfold,  he  put  on  a  lovely 
youthfulness ;  and,  drop  by  drop,  left  me  winter. 

I  hurried  from  the  room,  and  seeking  my  wife,  laid  the 
case  before  her.  "This  is  a  ghoul,"  I  said,  "that  we  harbour; 
he  is  sucking  my  best  blood,  and  the  household  is  clean  be- 
witched." She  laid  aside  the  book  in  which  she  read  and 
laughed  at  me.  Now  my  wife  was  well-looking,  and  her  eyes 
were  the  light  of  my  soul.  Consider,  then,  how  I  felt  as  she 
laughed,  taking  the  Stranger's  part  against  me.  When  I  left 
her,  it  was  with  a  new  suspicion  in  my  heart.  "How  shall 


OLD  MSON  155 

it  be,"  I  thought,  "if,  after  stealing  my  youth,  he  go  on  to 
take  the  one  thing  that  is  better?" 

In  my  room,  day  by  day,  I  brooded  upon  this — hating 
my  own  alteration,  and  fearing  worse.  With  the  Stranger 
there  was  no  longer  any  disguise.  His  head  blossomed 
in  curls;  white  teeth  filled  the  hollows  of  his  mouth;  the 
pits  in  his  cheeks  were  heaped  full  with  roses,  glowing 
under  a  transparent  skin.  It  was  ^Eson  renewed  and  thank- 
less; and  he  sat  on,  devouring  my  substance. 

Now,  having  probed  my  weakness,  and  being  satisfied 
that  I  no  longer  dared  to  turn  him  out,  he,  who  had  half 
imposed  his  native  tongue  upon  us,  constraining  the  house- 
hold to  a  hideous  jargon,  the  bastard  growth  of  two  lan- 
guages, condescended  to  jerk  us  back  rudely  into  our  own 
speech  once  more,  mastering  it  with  a  readiness  that  proved 
his  former  dissimulation,  and  using  it  henceforward  as  the 
sole  vehicle  of  his  wishes.  On  his  past  life  he  remained  silent; 
but  took  occasion  to  confide  in  me  that  he  proposed  em- 
bracing a  military  career  as  soon  as  he  should  tire  of  the 
shelter  of  my  roof. 

And  I  groaned  in  my  chamber;  for  that  which  I  feared 
had  come  to  pass.  He  was  making  open  love  to  my  wife. 
And  the  eyes  with  which  he  looked  at  her,  and  the  lips 
with  which  he  coaxed  her,  had  been  mine;  and  I  was  an 
old  man.  Judge  now  between  me  and  this  guest. 

One  morning  I  went  to  my  wife;  for  the  burden  was  past 
bearing,  and  I  must  satisfy  myself.  I  found  her  tending 
the  plants  on  her  window-ledge;  and  when  she  turned,  I 
saw  that  years  had  not  taken  from  her  comeliness,  one  jot. 
And  I  was  old. 

So  I  taxed  her  on  the  matter  of  this  Stranger,  saying 
this  and  that,  and  how  I  had  cause  to  believe  he  loved  her. 

"That  is  beyond  doubt,"  she  answered,  and  smiled. 

"By  my  head,  I  believe  his  fancy  is  returned!"  I  blurted 
out. 

And  her  smile  grew  radiant  as,  looking  me  in  the  face, 
she  answered,  "By  my  soul,  husband,  it  is." 

Then  I  went  from  her,  down  into  my  garden,  where 
the  day  grew  hot  and  the  flowers  were  beginning  to  droop. 


1 56  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

I  stared  upon  them,  and  could  find  no  solution  to  the  prob- 
lem that  worked  in  my  heart.  And  then  I  glanced  up, 
eastward,  to  the  sun  above  the  privet-hedge,  and  saw 
him  coming  across  the  flower  beds,  treading  them  down  in 
wantonness.  He  came  with  a  light  step  and  a  smile,  and  I 
waited  for  him,  leaning  heavily  on  my  stick. 

"Give  me  your  watch!"  he  called  out  as  he  drew  near. 

"Why  should  I  give  you  my  watch?"  I  asked,  while  some- 
thing worked  in  my  throat. 

"Because  I  wish  it;  because  it  is  gold;  because  you  are 
too  old,  and  won't  want  it  much  longer." 

"Take  it!"  I  cried,  pulling  the  watch  out  and  thrusting 
it  into  his  hand.  "Take  it — you  who  have  taken  all  that 
is  better!  Strip  me;  spoil  me — " 

A  soft  laugh  sounded  above,  and  I  turned.  My  wife 
was  looking  down  on  us  from  the  window,  and  her  eyes  were 
both  moist  and  glad. 

"Pardon  me,"  she  said,  "it  is  you  who  are  spoiling  the 
child." 


THE  FIRE  OF  PROMETHEUS 

BY  HENRY  W.  NEVINSON 

THROUGH  the  long  noon,  while  the  sun  marched  as 
usual  across  the  enormous  sky — through  the  dead 
hours  of  the  day,  when  thunder  fell  upon  us  like 
blows,  and  the  lightning's  white  arm  could  hardly  pierce 
the  shrieking  columns  of  the  rain,  I  lay  upon  the  moun- 
tain-side among  the  soldiers  of  a  large  army.  In  war,  as 
in  extreme  grief,  a  numbness  overcomes  the  spirit;  the  mind 
swoons  under  the  stress  of  anxiety  or  pain;  it  can  feel  no 
more,  and  can  realise  no  more.  Situations  which  at  other 
times  would  appear  to  it  incredible  and  dreamlike  with  ter- 
ror, are  then  quite  natural,  as  though  they  came  in  the  ordi- 
nary course.  Horror,  astonishment,  the  realisation  of  the 
truth — these  are  things  that  grow  up  afterwards,  but  for  the 
time,  perception  and  even  fear  are  stifled  by  something, 
which  is  perhaps  their  own  excess.  My  chief  thought  was 
a  weary  longing  for  the  night.  When  would  the  night  come 
to  shelter  us  from  that  other  shrieking  storm  which  swept 
across  the  woof  of  drenching  water?  When  would  it  come 
to  lull  that  other  thunder  which  rattled  and  paused  and 
was  renewed  and  died  away  and  roared  again  with  quick- 
ened rage  as  though  in  mortal  haste  for  our  destruction? 
Hour  after  hour  I  lay,  peering  vainly  into  the  chaos  of 
rain  and  lightning  and  invisible  peril,  while  around  me  the 
air  sang  and  growled  with  lead,  and  men  died.  The  fate 
I  of  an  army,  the  issue  of  a  war,  depended  on  the  mountain 
|  ridge  where  I  was  lying,  and  of  such  advantages  as  an  at- 
tacking force  can  hold,  the  enemy  had  all.  Yet  I  no  more 
I  considered  defeat  than  did  the  gods  when  the  Titans  set 
about  their  assault  upon  heaven,  and  the  men  around  me 

157 


158  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

seemed  to  realise  no  more  than  myself  either  the  importance 
of  the  struggle  or  its  meaning  to  themselves. 

Food,  drink,  and  the  coming  night  that  would  end  our 
danger — those  were  the  things  we  thought  of;  and  among 
the  coarse  grass  and  rocks  on  which  we  lay,  beetles  and  ants 
were  hurrying  up  and  down,  seeking  escape  from  the  stormy 
rivulets  of  the  rain. 

Night  came  at  last.  Somewhere  behind  that  whirling  cur- 
tain of  storm  and  war,  the  sun  departed  to  light  the  tinkling 
lines  of  muleteers  up  quiet  gorges  of  the  Andes.  Renewed 
now  and  again  in  spitting  outbursts  like  the  end  of  angry 
words,  the  firing  slackened.  In  the  gathering  darkness,  forms 
of  unusual  size  began  to  move  about.  Men  got  up  from  in- 
visible hiding-places  and  shook  themselves,  as  though  shak- 
ing off  the  fear  of  death.  With  just  the  same  interest 
they  tried  to  rub  the  slime  from  their  knees.  They  spat, 
and  turned  their  heads,  and  looked  at  each  other.  One 
or  two  whispered  something,  as  people  whisper  in  church 
or  at  a  funeral.  An  officer  came  by,  trying  to  walk  as  usual. 
He  contrived  to  speak  aloud  after  a  few  attempts,  and  fire 
and  thunder  mixed  never  fell  on  us  with  so  strange  a  shock 
as  the  sound  of  his  voice.  The  men  watched  him  go  as 
ghosts  might  watch  a  fellow-ghost  in  limbo,  and  his  word 
of  command  was  passed  almost  silently  from  mouth  to 
mouth. 

Tormented  by  thirst,  I  turned  and  scrambled  down  the 
hill  to  the  narrow  road  which  in  peace  time  had  led  from 
one  little  village  to  another  far  away  across  the  position  we 
were  defending.  A  mere  track  of  loose  stones  and  mud, 
it  was  now  choked  from  end  to  end  by  all  the  chaos  which 
eddies  behind  the  course  of  battle:  the  wounded  on  stretch- 
ers dripping  red,  the  wounded  in  carts,  the  wounded  totter- 
ing back  on  their  own  feet,  sobbing  as  they  went;  ammuni- 
tion wagons  with  terrified  and  screaming  mules;  batteries 
taking  position  in  reserve;  dying  horses  being  urged  out  of 
the  way  with  whips  and  bayonets;  broken-down  limbers; 
reinforcements  in  companies  threading  their  way  to  the 
front ;  orderlies  trying  in  vain  to  gallop  through  the  muddle 
of  it  all.  Splashing  along  the  gutter  which  the  rain  had, 


THE  FIRE  OF  PROMETHEUS 

washed  beside  the  road,  I  got  among  the  scattered  houses 
at  last.  Nearly  all  were  dark  and  empty,  but  from  the 
main  church  as  I  passed  it  came  the  cries  of  the  wounded 
and  the  quiet  hum  of  surgeons  and  attendants  at  their  work. 
It  had  been  suddenly  turned  into  a  hospital.  Lights  were 
burning  inside,  and  cast  the  crimsons  and  golds  of  the 
stained  windows  upon  the  steaming,  misty  air.  I  don't 
know  why  the  sight  of  those  colours  affected  me  so  strangely 
then.  Hunger  and  exhaustion  may  have  given  distinctness 
to  the  vision  they  called  up,  but  to  most  people  the  outside 
of  a  lighted  church  at  night  is  full  of  half-forgotten  associa- 
tions, and  one  of  a  child's  first  mysteries  is  the  enchanted 
brilliance  of  the  windows  as  he  leaves  the  porch  to  the; 
sound  of  the  organ's  voluntary. 

In  the  midst  of  all  the  pain  and  wretchedness,  there  came 
to  me  the  smell  of  an  evening  in  early  spring;  and  instead 
of  the  crowded  and  slushy  track  between  the  bare  reck  and 
the  starveling  houses  appeared  a  gentle,  gravelly  road,  guid- 
ed by  clipped  hedgerows  through  plough  and  pasture  from 
which  a  god  could  have  scraped  the  fatted  soil  as  a  thrifty 
nurse  scrapes  off  the  children's  butter.  The  horses  wait- 
ing with  the  squire's  carriage  were  like  the  land,  their  shin- 
ing quarters  all  coated  over  with  laps  and  folds  of  fatness. 
So  were  the  congregation,  who,  having  sung  "A  few  more 
years  shall  roll,"  and  prayed  to  be  led  through  the  desert 
here,  came  out  of  the  church  door,  well  clothed,  well  washed, 
well  fed.  Like  the  Ancient  Mariner  watching  the  water- 
snakes  at  play,  I  blessed  them  unaware.  All  had  come  tb 
the  service  warmed  and  enlivened  by  their  tea,  and  were 
now  returning  to  supper  with  Sunday  night's  exhilaration  of 
duty  performed  and  tongues  released  from  religious  silence, 
whilst  the  collection-plate  tinkled  at  the  door.  Issuing  into 
blue  air  from  the  bright  orange  of  the  porch,  lover  signalled 
to  lover  under  a  silver  star.  So  the  ghostly  but  substantial 
procession  passed  out  into  a  land  of  bread  and  flesh  and 
milk  and  drinkable  water,  secure  of  the  morrow,  and  rooted 
in  a  past  of  uninterrupted  days.  As  I  watched  them  move 
comfortably  down  the  poignant  ways  of  memory,  I  knew 
that  an  exactly  similar  procession  would  be  crossing  that  an- 


160  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

cient  porch  to-night  (for  it  was  Sunday) ;  lovers  would 
signal  their  meetings  in  the  darkened  lanes,  the  smell  of  vio- 
lets would  swim  like  dreams  through  the  air,  and  from  the 
fields  the  lambs  cry  sleepily.  I  wondered  how  it  was  pos- 
sible for  those  people  ever  to  be  unhappy  in  their  nestling 
homes.  No  misery  seemed  to  count  beside  the  wretchedness 
of  war,  and  a  longing  for  peace  and  all  that  peace  means 
came  over  me.  I  longed  for  the  tranquillity  of  the  coun- 
try lanes  and  the  purple  woods  of  spring;  I  longed  for  the 
spacious  and  quiet  homes,  for  the  silver  smiling  on  the 
tablecloth  and  on  the  darkly  gleaming  sideboards,  for  the 
soft  stir  of  women  in  the  room  and  the  faint  smell  of  their 
hair  and  dresses,  for  the  talking  and  quick  laughter,  for  the 
clean  sheets  en  wholesome  beds,  and  the  glad  calling  of  the 
rooks  when  morning  came  above  the  elms. 

In  a  dark  and  empty  shed  which  was  now  my  home,  I 
drank  deep  of  a  bucket  into  which  the  rain  was  dripping 
through  the  roof,  and  began  eating  my  half  biscuit,  very 
slowly,  to  make  it  last.  I  was  full  of  vague  and  bitter 
rage — rage  at  the  grit  and  sand  in  the  biscuit,  at  the  slimy 
floor  and  the  sopping  rug  under  which  I  had  to  sleep — 
rage  at  the  risk  of  death,  which  might  prevent  me  seeing 
anything  I  loved  again.  I  prayed  to  witness  th?  enemy's 
quick  and  entire  overthrow,  to  watch  them  scattered  over 
the  hills  and  swept  from  the  plains  by  our  pursuing  guns. 
Only  over  their  dead  could  we  win  the  road  to  happiness, 
and  now  they  were  actually  attacking  us,  and  on  the  rocks 
our  dead  lay  almost  as  thick  as  theirs.  It  seemed  as 
though  a  natural  law  had  gone  crazy.  Full  of  irritation  and 
angry  fears  of  what  the  night  would  bring  to  succeed  so 
horrible  a  day,  I  fell  asleep  with  exhaustion,  while  a  thin 
dust  of  water  kept  stealing  down  on  me  through  the  chinks 
of  the  boarding. 

Hours  passed  before  I  woke,  and  then  the  rain  had 
stopped  and  there  was  no  more  noise  of  wagons  on  the 
road.  "Now  is  the  time  they'll  renew  the  attack,"  I  said 
wearily  to  myself;  and  getting  up  from  the  filthy  ground 
I  went  out  again  into  the  night  and  wandered  back  towards 
a  part  of  the  front  where  I  had  not  been  before,  though  it 


THE  FIRE  OF  PROMETHEUS  161 

was  a  continuation  cf  the  same  ridge  which  we  had  been 
defending.  All  was  quiet  now.  Here  and  there  I  came 
upon  little  groups  of  our  men  along  the  line,  stretched 
in  sleep  or  huddled  together  for  warmth,  though  the  night 
was  hot.  Late  and  red  the  waning  moon  had  risen,  and 
it  now  gave  an  uncertain  light,  crossed  by  mists  and  films 
of  moving  cloud,  the  rear-guard  of  the  storm.  Stumbling 
over  the  rocks,  I  reached  the  further  crest  of  the  hill,  where 
sentries  were  posted  at  intervals,  and  from  there  I  could 
see  down  into  the  misty  valley  along  which  the  enemy  had 
come.  Ridge  after  ridge  of  mountain  stretched  before  me 
just  discernible  in  the  moonlight,  and  all  looked  so  free 
and  peaceful  that  war  seemed  an  absurdity,  and  with  the 
mere  desire  of  escape,  as  from  an  iron  ring,  I  began  to  creep 
down  the  steep  hillside.  The  dead  ground  soon  concealed 
me  from  above,  and  I  there  sat  down  to  brood  and  to  await 
what  might  happen  before  the  dawn. 

I  waited  long  in  the  silence,  and  then  I  suddenly  heard 
something  like  the  gentle  movement  of  a  shy  animal,  and 
looking  to  the  side  I  saw  a  figure  stooping  down  over  a 
dark  object  lying  upon  the  ground.  The  figure  appeared  to 
be  shaking  a  man  by  the  shoulder  as  though  to  wake  him 
up.  I  got  my  revolver  ready  in  my  hand,  but  uncertain 
whether  it  might  not  be  one  of  our  own  sentries,  I  first  said 
in  a  low  voice,  "Hullo,  there  1  Why  can't  you  let  the  poor 
fellow  sleep?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  must,"  said  the  other  without  looking  up: 
"yet  it  is  but  ten  pulses  of  the  blood  since  he  was  awake." 

Sitting  down,  he  raised  the  man's  head  and  supported 
it  on  his  knees,  as  gently  as  a  woman  moves  her  sleeping 
lover.  I  went  and  peered  into  the  motionless  face.  Under 
the  dim  moon  it  was  a  blur  of  greenish  white,  like  the  moon 
herself. 

"Why,  he's  one  of  the  enemy!"  I  said,  seeing  the  badge 
on  his  cap. 

"No,"  the  other  answered;  "he  is  dead."  He  took  the 
man's  hand,  and  one  by  one  undid  the  tightly  clenched 
fingers,  stretching  them  out  and  watching  them  slowly  curl 
together  again. 


1 62  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

"Look,"  he  said,  "touch  this  queer  thing,  and  you  will 
find  it  still  warmish  and  limp.  Only  sixty  pulses  of  the 
blood  ago  it  was  awake  with  life.  See  what  peculiar  stuff 
it  is,  solid  and  yet  full  of  red  and  blue  waters  which  have 
only  just  stopped  running  backwards  and  forwards — oh, 
far  quicker  than  the  waves  upon  a  shore;  a  network  sub- 
stance of  tender  cords  and  jellies,  finer  than  the  loom,  cov- 
ered with  a  porous  coating,  more  pliant  than  silk,  and  fit- 
ting closer  than  a  light  lady's  robe.  Five  hooks,  you  see, 
with  props  and  sticks  of  hollowed  lime,  pulleys  and  hinges 
complete,  and  tipped  with  horn.  And  all  alive — 'all  but 
alive*  still,  as  the  honest  fishmongers  say — only  three  min- 
utes ago  quivering  with  the  last  beat  of  life.  Only  this 
morning  it  buttoned  this  jacket,  or  carried  food  to  this  poor 
mouth,  just  as  the  life  devised,  and  far  better  than  any  con- 
trivance man  has  ever  made.  But  now  nothing  can  set  it 
moving  ever  again.  I  tried  to  hold  in  the  life  and  keep  it 
mingled  with  the.  body,  I  tried  to  catch  it  by  the  throat 
and  prevent  its  escape.  But  while  I  clutched  it  tight,  it  was 
gone  through  my  fingers.  To  feel  it  go  was  worse  than  a 
lover's  longing  which  vanishes  in  waking.  For  the  life  had 
been  there,  and  now  it  was  not  anywhere  at  all." 

"Many  things  are  sad,  but  death  is  not  the  saddest,  and 
the  poor  fellow  is  only  dead,"  I  said,  speaking  like  the 
chorus  of  a  play. 

"You  are  young  compared  to  me,  and  therefore  wise,"  he 
answered.  "But  this  rough  hand,  now  more  perishable 
than  a  stone — what  astonishing  things  it  has  done  since  it 
was  pink  and  small,  pressing  against  some  mother's  breast. 
Now  it  is  lined  and  twisted  and  embrowned,  just  like  a 
wild  hawk's  claw.  Year  after  year  it  has  harnessed  the 
horse  and  ox,  and  scraped  the  mud  from  their  coated  fur. 
It  has  cloven  the  woods  for  fire  and  dug  trenches  where 
water  should  run.  Inside  it  is  hard  and  knotted  with  the 
plough  and  spade.  It  has  shorn  the  wool  from  sheep,  and 
flung  the  seeds  of  corn  trustfully  upon  the  earth.  It  has 
shovelled  snow  from  the  cottage  door.  It  has  heaped  a  road 
across  the  swampy  fen.  Steeped  in  filth,  and  caked  with 
dust  that  clave  to  its  sweat,  it  has  seemed  but  a  clod  of 


THE  FIRE  OF  PROMETHEUS  163 

earth,  more  insensible  than  the  cloven  feet  of  oxen.  Yet  it 
has  known  pleasure  better  than  the  marble  hands  of  gods. 
At  the  fire  it  has  warmed  itself,  and  after  the  heat  of  the 
day  it  has  held  the  wine.  It  has  touched  the  hands  of 
other  men,  and  stroked  the  lamb 's-wool  hair  of  children, 
and  carried  them  along  the  weary  road.  Do  you  not  sup- 
pose that  it  too  has  very  likely  throbbed  with  ecstasy  at  the 
touch  of  the  beloved?  Has  it  not  embraced  her,  and  been 
laid  upon  her  heart,  feeling  the  bell  of  her  life  ring  muffled 
in  her  softness?  What  has  the  King  of  Babylon's  hand 
done  more  or  better  than  this  poor  bit  of  cold  and  greenish 
stuff  which  already  is  falling  back  into  the  earth  it  knew 
so  well?  Yet  all  such  things  he  cast  behind  him,  and  in  the 
assault  was  with  the  first,  although  the  last  to  die.  As  he 
lay  unnoticed  in  this  cranny  of  the  rocks,  scorched  by  the 
sun  and  sodden  by  the  rain,  he  knew  all  day  long  that  he 
should  never  see  his  little  farm  again,  or  wake  at  dawn, 
or  hear  the  voice  of  any  woman." 

"If  he  so  valued  his  life,"  I  said,  "he  should  not  have 
come  out  to  battle." 

"Do  you  not  value  your  life?"  he  answered.  "To  him 
it  was  as  sweet  as  to  you.  Do  you  wish  never  to  see  again 
the  things  and  people  you  are  fond  of,  or  never  again  to 
do  what  most  you  like?  It  was  for  love  of  him  that  this 
coloured  rag  about  his  neck  was  made.  He  was  among 
my  worshippers;  oh,  why  was  he  not  content  in  all  the  good 
things  I  can  give — in  rising  up  and  lying  down,  in  love  and 
pleasant  food  and  all  the  deep  laughter  of  the  world?  Now 
he  lies  here  quenched.  His  beard  and  hair  are  matted  with 
blood  and  water  mixed,  his  clothes  are  rent  into  holes  and 
coated  with  mud,  his  toes  stick  out  through  the  fragments 
of  his  boots.  What  was  it  drove  him  on  to  leave  his  home 
and  flocks  and  all  he  loved  beside?  In  his  heart  there 
burned  a  raging  fire.  The  Titans  possessed  him,  and  now 
like  a  Titan  he  lies  prone." 

"Poor  fellow,"  I  said,  "he  has  met  with  a  strange  epitaph, 
who  all  his  life  was  insignificant  and  unknown — now  to  be 
called  a  Titan  when  he  is  dead,  and  more  insignificant  still." 

"I  admit,"  he  said,  laughing,  with  a  far-off  look  as  though 


1 64  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

he  were  calling  up  scenes  long  hidden;  "I  admit  the  out- 
ward resemblance  is  not  very  great.  Dear  and  savage  sons 
of  earth,  gigantic  and  uncouth,  they  wallowed  in  ocean, 
making  it  boil  like  a  pot,  and  in  their  wrath  or  jollity  they 
hurled  mountains  with  all  their  trees  from  land  to  land. 
Black  and  red  they  were,  and  their  fiery  hair  streamed 
upon  the  clouds  as  the  sun  went  down  in  storm.  With  the 
sides  of  precipices  they  built  their  homes,  and  on  beds  of 
flat-topped  hills  they  stretched  their  coiling  limbs  to  rest, 
shaking  their  fists  in  exultation  among  the  clouds  when 
morning  woke  them.  The  joints  of  behemoth  were  their 
food,  and  with  pails  of  foaming  milk  they  washed  down  the 
slices  of  leviathan.  The  passion  of  their  love  shook  the 
earth  like  earthquakes  of  the  prime. 

"Suddenly  fate  came — fate  with  the  limits  that  conquer 
all  things  but  the  thoughts  and  desires  of  the  soul.  High  in 
heaven,  above  the  topmost  mountains,  the  trim,  white  gods 
appeared,  and  against  their  fastidious  pride  those  earth-born 
monsters  raged  in  vain,  breathing  out  defiance,  lifting  their 
wild  arms  against  the  sky,  piling  up  their  mountains  that 
the  height  of  heaven  might  be  scaled.  The  lightning  blazed. 
On  sea  and  land  their  bodies  writhed.  Before  they  could 
say  'What  is  it?'  the  lightning  blazed.  Bolts  of  fire  hissed 
in  their  fiery  blood.  Shrieking  they  lay  as  the  tempest 
shrieks  upon  the  cliffs  when  speeding  over  the  sea  it  smites 
the  armoured  and  creviced  rocks  with  blow  on  blow,  and 
to  the  thunder  of  the  poles  their  roarings  made  answer. 
Precipices  fell  to  cover  them,  and  the  weight  of  mountains 
hardly  stilled  the  twistings  of  their  pain.  Solid  beds  of 
granite  were  molten  with  their  rage.  The  crust  of  the  world 
was  turned  to  jelly.  It  rent  and  split,  and  through  its 
chinks  their  nostrils  breathed  the  sulphurous  smoke  of  their 
anguish.  Up  from  deep  chasms  they  spat  their  boiling 
spittle  against  the  sky.  With  their  sighs  they  shot  the 
depths  of  the  sea  aloft,  so  that  weak  water  stood  up  straight 
upon  a  watery  floor  like  the  columns  of  the  gods.  Through 
their  prisons  of  broad-based  mountains  their  torturing  fires 
burst  the  breathing-holes  whence  issued  flame  mixed  with 
crags  and  fervent  boulders  and  the  melted  water  of  adaman- 


THE  FIRE  OF  PROMETHEUS  165 

tine  ores.  Day  and  night  for  ever  the  smoke  of  their  misery- 
hung  upon  the  mountain-tops.  Their  crimson  indignation 
scorched  the  cool  grey  clouds  that  fluttered  past,  and 
brought  them  to  earth  like  birds  transfixed.  As  often  as 
they  turned  their  weary  sides,  the  world  shook  and  the 
crystal  pinnacles  of  the  hills  toppled  into  ruin.  So  sprawled 
across  the  face  of  earth  they  lay  in  lengths  of  bleeding 
cinder." 

He  ceased,  and  drew  the  limbs  of  the  dead  man  straight, 
removing  some  rough  stones  from  beneath  him,  as  though 
they  could  hurt  him  still.  Then  leaning  over  him,  he  sighed 
and  said:  "The  outward  resemblance  indeed  is  small;  but 
though  he  is  so  far  greater  than  all  the  Titans,  his  fate  is 
much  the  same,  and  he  has  won  a  crown  like  theirs." 

"Your  speech,"  I  said,  "is  ever  a  journey  varied  by  col- 
lisions." 

Looking  up  like  simplicity  surprised,  he  answered:  "But 
is  it  not  a  glorious  crown  to  be  well  lamented?  And  the 
Titans,  you  know,  had  that  advantage.  Why,  the  whole 
circle  of  the  world  joined  in  lamentation  for  their  ancient 
sovereignty — the  days  when  things  went  merrily,  though 
with  some  pleasing  disorder.  The  dear  Earth  mourned  over 
them,  beweeping  with  bitter  tears  the  pangs  of  children 
whose  bones  her  young  womb  had  formed.  And  did  not  the 
poet  tell  us  that  all  who  loved  the  wild  young  Earth 
mourned  too — the  wanderers  of  Asia,  and  those  who  pitch 
beside  the  lake  at  the  world's  edge,  and  the  spearmen  watch- 
ing like  eagles  from  the  peaks  above  the  gulf  of  nothing- 
ness. Was  it  not  a  crown  of  triumph  to  touch  the  hearts 
which  none  could  tame — the  breastless  girls  who  lay  the 
bow  and  not  the  baby  to  their  side,  and  sweep  across  the 
desert,  horse  and  limbs  beclouded  in  their  whirling  hair? 
Or  think  of  Atlas,  upon  whom  fell  the  bitterest  doom  that 
can  befall  the  damned — the  doom  of  usefulness.  Bound  in 
steel,  he  propped  the  turning  dome  of  heaven,  and  but  for 
him  the  hosts  of  stars  would  have  fluttered  down  upon  the 
earth  like  twinkling  snow.  Yet  the  poet  says: 

'For  him  the  waves  of  the  sea  are  heard 
Moaning  in  cadence,  and  the  precipitous  gulf 


1 66  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

Groans,  and  the  black  chasm  of  the  unseen  world 
Mutters  its  deep-hid  woe; 
Yea,  from  the  holy  streams  a  pitying  voice 
Whispers  of  sorrow  as   they    brightly  go.' 

Would  you  choose  the  acclamations  of  victory  rather  than 
be  mourned  like  that?  Crowns  are  of  many  kinds,  and 
there  are  gods  who  linger  with  the  weaker  side.  Let  us 
therefore  lament  this  man,  as  the  Titans  were  lament- 
ed." 

"With  all  my  heart,"  I  answered.  "But,  after  all,  the 
Titans  were  ignorant  and  mistaken.  The  gods  were  against 
them." 

"Oh  yes,  I  know,"  he  sighed;  "any  one  can  see  that  now. 
There  was  one  of  them  saw  it  at  the  time,  and  being  neither 
ignorant  nor  mistaken  himself,  he  even  helped  the  gods. 
Yet  in  the  end  he  fared  no  better  for  his  foresight.  There 
is  a  cliff  in  Caucasus.  At  its  foot  the  innumerable  waves 
are  smiling.  Above  it  moves  the  scorching  sun,  and  dark- 
ness warps  it  with  the  frost.  An  eagle  tears  the  heart  that 
so  loved  mankind." 

As  he  spoke,  he  undid  the  dead  man's  filthy  and  torn 
shirt,  and  smoothed  the  dark  hair  on  his  chest,  down  which 
the  blood  had  trickled. 

"Here,  indeed,"  he  said,  "the  fire  of  Prometheus  has  gone 
out.  But  have  you  never  thought  of  fire  how  strange  it  is, 
how  it  multiplies  itself  more  quickly  than  lovers,  more 
quickly  than  the  jelly  of  the  sea,  which  splits  and  is  two? 
With  even  greater  similitude  to  itself  it  produces  its  young; 
for  in  a  moment  a  hundred  flames  may  spring,  yet  each  will 
be  the  same  flame  as  the  first  and  as  every  other.  Even 
if  the  first  goes  out,  it  lives  identical  and  unappeased  in  all 
the  rest.  Of  the  same  nature  is  the  fire  of  Prometheus.  Here 
it  has  gone  out,  but  who  knows  how  many  flames  may 
already  have  sprung  from  it? — each  the  same  as  itself,  or 
differing  only  in  brightness  or  colour  according  to  the  heart 
in  which  it  dwells." 

"I  have  heard,"  I  said,  "how  the  one  intelligent  Titan 
brought  fire  down  from  heaven  to  men,  carrying  it  in  a 
fennel-stalk,  of  all  strange  warming-pans,  and  how  wofully 


THE  FIRE  OF  PROMETHEUS  167 

he  suffered  for  his  philanthropic  ways.  But  I  suppose  the 
fire  you  now  speak  of  is  something  different?" 

"I  am  hardly  sure,"  he  answered,  with  his  puzzled  air. 
"For  I  have  seen  this  inner  fire  make  the  inside  of  a  face 
reflect  its  flame,  just  as  a  blazing  log  reddens  the  outside. 
And  when  the  inner  fire  dies  away,  the  face  turns  to  dull 
ashes,  like  burnt  lovetokens.  I  have  felt  that  if  a  heart  in 
which  this  fire  kindled,  could  suddenly  be  laid  bare,  bright 
tongues  of  flame  would  leap  from  it  as  from  a  forge  blown 
by  the  bellows;  and  sometimes  I  have  seen  the  very  depths. 
of  human  eyes  turn  crimson  with  little  points  of  fire — more 
crimson  than  a  hare's  eye  when  you  catch  it  sideways  in 
the  sun.  So  that  I  am  inclined  to  think  the  inner  and 
outer  fires  may  originally  have  been  the  same,  and  now  only 
differ  in  the  stuff  on  which  they  feed.  But  if  I  am  wrong, 
please  laugh  at  my  simplicity." 

"I  think  you  yourself,"  I  said,  "are  never  far  from  laugh- 
ter; but  I  cannot  laugh  to-night,  being  sorrowful." 

"Nay,"  he  answered,  "if  you  will  not  laugh,  and  are 
sorrowful  enough  for  understanding,  I  might  tell  you  a  story, 
almost  as  short  as  strange,  about  that  selfsame  fire. 

"You  remember  what  the  poet  tells  us  about  the  race  of 
poor  little  mortal  men  and  women  when  first  they  began, 
to  venture  out  upon  the  scum  which  gathered  over  the  boil- 
ing star  of  earth.  It  was  still  warm  in  parts  and  every- 
where flexible,  so  that  what  to-day  was  a  plain  might  to- 
morrow be  tossed  up  into  a  snow-capped  mountain,  or 
sunk  to  a  lake,  full  of  bitumen  and  biting  salts.  That  con- 
dition of  things  was  enough  by  itself  to  give  great  uncer- 
tainty to  existence,  and  upon  this  bewildering  surface  men 
crept  about,  astonished  and  at  random,  never  knowing 
what  might  happen  next,  or  in  what  altitude  and  surround- 
ings they  might  wake  in  the  morning.  Understanding  no 
guidance  of  stars  or  of  seasons,  they  lived  in  shocks,  as  when 
we  slide  in  sleep  from  catastrophe  to  catastrophe.  So  the 
poet,  describing  their  condition,  says: 

'Seeing  they  saw  not,  in  those  ancient  days, 

And  hearing  heard  not,  but  like  shapes  of  dreams, 

Their  life  was  one  long  whirl  of  inconsequence.' 


1 68  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

"Of  course  they  enjoyed  no  comforts  of  expensive  sim- 
plicity such  as  you  love.  They  did  not  even  build  sunny 
little  houses,  but  for  shelter  from  rain  and  heat  they 
grubbed  holes  with  their  claws  like  phantom  ants,  or  lay 
huddled  together  in  slimy  caverns  where  the  roof  dripped 
upon  them  till  they  steamed.  In  cold  and  damp  and  misery 
they  lived,  uncertain  of  the  morrow,  and  they  stayed  their 
hunger  by  swallowing  seeds  and  berries,  or  if  they  saw  a 
four-footed  animal  sick  and  dying  they  crowded  round  him 
pelting  him  with  stones,  and  then  leapt  upon  his  body  with 
gluttonous  howls,  tearing  his  limbs  asunder  and  gnawing 
them  like  lions;  for  they  were  not  at  all  refined. 

"But  Prometheus,  being  only  half  a  god,  pitied  their 
wretchedness,  as  he  went  among  them  to  and  fro  from  heav- 
en. You  know  what  strange  services  he  did  the  poor  crea- 
tures, for  he  himself  described  it  all  to  those  dear  girls  of 
the  sea  who  came  to  cheer  his  lonely  suffering  with  the 
sighs  of  their  little  bosoms  and  with  commonplace  as  tender 
as  their  own  caresses.  Birds  know  the  coming  seasons,  but 
poor  man  had  to  be  taught  their  order  by  the  punctual 
stars,  which,  as  perhaps  you  may  have  heard,  do  not  run 
about  anyhow  as  they  like,  but  have  their  risings  and  set- 
tings fitted  with  extreme  nicety.  Stars  are,  no  doubt,  the 
best  guides  to  the  future,  but  the  Titan  taught  men  other 
signs  also  by  which  to  make  a  pretty  fair  guess  at  what 
was  likely  to  happen:  such  as  the  difference  between  false 
dreams  and  true,  the  meaning  of  haunting  sounds  at  night 
or  dawn,  and  of  the  flight  and  habits  of  birds.  He  taught 
them  too  the  more  difficult  art  of  calculating  probabilities 
by  the  shape  and  colour  of  the  insides  of  sacrificed  animals, 
and  by  the  general  appearance  of  a  sirloin  at  dinner.  By 
such  means  he  saved  many  mighty  armies,  giving  the  enemy 
over  to  destruction  instead.  Further,  he  told  men  what 
herbs  to  drink  or  chew  in  sickness — a  matter  in  which  dogs 
had  some  knowledge,  but  man  none — whether  hellebore  was 
best,  or  mandragora,  or  mint,  or  poppy-seed,  or  fox-glove, 
or  garlic  which  gives  heroic  heart;  and  what  was  good  as  a 
soothing  plaster  for  wounds,  whether  pounded  nipple-wort 
or  grated  cheese  mingled  with  honey.  Then  he  taught  them 


THE  FIRE  OF  PROMETHEUS  169 

the  use  of  the  wheel,  and  how  saving  it  was  to  harness  other 
animals  than  themselves  to  their  carts.  More  wonderful 
still,  he  made  the  white- winged  wagons  that  flit  across  the 
sea.  In  crystal  he  showed  them  thin  veins  of  rustless  gold, 
and  from  lumps  of  uncouth  rock  he  hammered  out  the 
sword. 

"One  singularly  beautiful  gift  of  a  very  different  kind  he 
also  gave  them,  though  the  poets  have  not  made  much  of 
it,  perhaps  because,  having  it  in  abundance  themselves,  they 
hardly  realised  its  beauty.  You  remember  how  the  Titan 
said: 

'I  stopped  man  looking  at  the  truth  of  fate, 
And  in  his  heart  I  lodged  the  blinding  hopes/ 

"That  is  the  golden  gift  which  casts  a  golden  gleam 
about  the  world,  making  the  sun  appear  more  glorious  than 
he  is,  and  giving  deeper  blues  and  blacks  and  greens  to  the 
sea;  making  the  sea,  indeed,  appear  to  be  a  beautiful  or  ter- 
rific being,  though  we  know  it  is  only  so  many  jugfuls  of 
salted  water,  and  to  a  dog  or  horse  it  is  dangerous  and  nasty 
to  drink,  but  no  more.  For  the  dog  and  horse  see  the  truth 
of  fate;  they  see  the  bare  facts  of  things,  and  when  they 
come  to  a  stream  they  drink  of  it,  but  do  not  worship. 
Man  alone  is  blinded  by  the  Promethean  gift,  and  passing 
over  reality  with  indifference,  he  fixes  his  vision  on  things 
which  are  not  there.  In  the  translucent  pools  of  the  stream 
he  alone  can  see  the  beautiful  spirit  sitting  with  amber 
hair,  just  as  the  lover  beholds  something  beautified  and 
divine  in  his  maiden,  who  very  likely  is  only  a  poor  un- 
washed and  witless  thing,  not  in  the  least  nobler  than  him- 
self. In  his  own  heart  also  man  is  blinded  to  grim  fate, 
and  sees  a  finer  spirit  than  exists.  No  one  appears  to  him- 
self quite  so  bad  as  he  really  is.  When  he  had  to  die,  the 
matricide  lamented  what  an  artist  was  dying,  and  in  his 
own  judgment  Phalaris  would  have  deserved  the  hemlock 
almost  as  little  as  the  Philosopher.  Wherever  he  moves 
through  the  world,  man  sees  around  him  the  fool,  the 
knave,  the  scoundrel,  the  murderer,  the  swindler,  the  luster, 
the  drunkard,  the  glutton,  the  coward,  the  traitor,  the  hypo- 


170  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

crite,  the  braggart,  the  idiot,  the  gossip,  the  weakling,  the 
mean  and  crawling  soul.  Yet  in  mankind,  which  is  a  com- 
bination of  all  these  indifferent  creatures,  he  sees  something 
great  and  admirable;  in  the  midst  of  unnatural  cruelty  he 
speaks  of  humanity  as  though  it  were  the  common  posses- 
sion of  the  human  race,  and  of  virtue  as  the  proper  quality 
of  man.  Some  indeed  are  so  richly  endowed  with  these 
blinding  and  beneficent  hopes,  that  they  move  through  the 
world  as  though  they  had  but  one  step  to  reach  the  Blessed 
Isles,  of  which  they  see  the  assurance  in  the  colours  of 
sunset  clouds,  or  in  the  riding  moon,  or  in  the  gleams  of 
loveliness  that  flit  across  men's  hearts  like  sunshine  on  dark 
mountains.  By  such  men  evil  things  are  speedily  forgotten, 
and  a  radiance  of  joy  dances  before  their  eyes.  To  them 
the  common  scenes  of  earth  are  illuminated  by  a  glamour  of 
sweet  or  heroic  associations,  and  even  through  the  ceilings 
of  domestic  architecture  they  ever  behold  the  stars.  Sad 
and  impatient  they  may  well  be,  overcome  by  a  wild  yearn- 
ing for  something  which  even  their  hearts  can  hardly 
imagine,  yet  they  are  surrounded  by  a  glory  which  exists 
but  for  them,  and  is  nowhere  found.  Or  may  we  perhaps 
say  that  in  a  sense  it  actually  exists  by  their  means,  and 
that  their  passionate  conception  has  indeed  the  power  to 
create  the  things  they  seek;  just  as  lovers  create  something 
that  is  themselves  and  yet  separate  and  substantial?  Or 
if  that  thought  appears  to  you  too  beautiful  even  for  hope, 
let  us  remember  what  the  Iberians  say;  for  they  dwell  upon 
the  verge  of  Ocean,  and  ever  watching  westward  for  the 
Blessed  Isles  with  illimitable  desire,  about  once  every  seven 
years  they  actually  behold  those  islands  far  away,  quiver- 
ing with  beauty  on  the  horizon's  rim.  And  thereupon  they 
all  set  out  in  coracles,  canoes,  and  boats  of  hide,  with  fire 
in  their  hearts  and  hands,  for  they  know  very  well  that  if 
they  can  once  fling  fire  on  that  enchanted  land,  it  will 
abide  with  them  for  ever  and  be  their  home.  Ah,  son  of 
mine,"  he  went  on,  stroking  the  dead  man's  head,  "on  what 
land  of  desire  did  you  seek  to  fling  the  fire  of  your  soul? 
And  what  haven  is  this  that  you  have  found?" 
As  he  seemed  lost  in  thought,  I  said:  "There  it  is  again. 


THE  FIRE  OF  PROMETHEUS  171 

You  speak  of  the  fire  of  the  soul;  but  I  only  know  that 
Prometheus  brought  fire  to  man  in  a  fennel-stalk,  and  when 
you  said  that  in  this  poor  fellow  here  the  fire  of  Prometheus 
had  gone  out,  you  were  not  speaking  of  the  same  fire  as 
the  kitchen  grate,  I  suppose,  excellent  and  comforting  as 
that  is." 

He  smiled  shyly  and  rubbed  his  hairy  face  between  his 
hands,  en  which  the  blood  lay  black. 

"How  you  drive  me  on,"  he  said,  "worse  than  the  gadfly! 
Did  we  not  agree  that  the  outer  and  inner  fires  were  prob- 
ably of  the  same  nature,  their  manifestations  being  so 
closely  alike?" 

"Oh,  if  you  are  going  to  talk  in  symbols,"  I  said,  "it.  is 
hopeless  for  an  ordinary  man  like  me." 

"And  yet,"  he  answered,  "you  yourself  are  but  a  symbol 
of  the  fighting  soul  upon  her  perilous  way.  Well,  I  can 
only  repeat  the  things  I  myself  heard  long  ago,  and  in  a  dif- 
ferent place  to  this. 

"It  was  late  twilight  when  I  crept  down  the  mountain 
cliffs  to  where  the  Titan  lay.  For  in  the  daytime  many 
strange  beings  came  to  see  him — not  only  the  tender  mer- 
maids, but  that  poor  cow-headed  thing,  and  Ocean  with  a 
shopman's  reverence  for  success  and  his  suspicion  of  people 
who  have  come  down  in  the  world:  So  I  waited  till  his 
other  visitors  had  gone,  and  then  I  crept  along  the  edge 
to  where  he  lay,  indistinguishable  from  rock,  save  for  the 
heaving  of  his  breath.  I  stood  beside  him  in  silence,  for 
there  was  nothing  to  say,  and  I  saw  his  great  limbs,  how 
wearily  they  hung,  being  tortured  and  clamped  with  spikes 
and  metal  bands.  But  as  midnight  passed,  and  I  watched 
Orion  and  the  Pleiades  and  all  the  chilly  stars  going  on  their 
way  without  a  sign  of  care,  I  touched  his  arm  where  it  was 
pinned  to  the  rock,  and  said:  'Son  of  Earth,  I  too  am  here.' 
But  he  made  no  more  answer  than  the  rock.  Then  I  lay 
down  beside  him,  warding  off  the  frost  with  my  nice  furry 
skin,  and  all  night  long  he  hung  there  silent.  But  when 
first  a  glimmer  of  white  stole  into  the  eastern  sky,  I  spoke 
again:  'Son  of  Earth,  I  too  am  here,  for  a  flame  consumes 
me.'  And  at  the  word  he  moved,  as  the  rock  of  Caucasus 


172   THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

stirs  beside  the  streams  of  ice.  Then  a  voice  came,  low 
and  proud:  'It  was  I  brought  flame  to  man,  when  before 
he  was  colder  than  dumb  fishes.' 

"Again  he  was  silent,  and  as  the  white  dawn  slowly 
grew,  I  said:  'Son  of  Earth,  a  flame  consumes  me,  seeing 
what  injustice  a  god  suffers  at  the  hands  of  gods.' 

"Then  he  answered:  'It  was  I  brought  flame  to  man,  the 
flame  for  his  hearth  and  his  frozen  hands.  And  as  I  bore  it 
swiftly  to  earth  the  sparks  kept  streaming  behind  me  like 
a  comet's  hair,  and  they  mingled  with  the  shivering  spirits 
of  unborn  men.  Into  their  very  hearts  the  fire  entered,  and 
was  made  one  with  their  blood.  There  it  smoulders  for  ever, 
and  at  a  breath  it  kindles,  nor  can  it  ever  be  quenched,  for 
it  is  passed  on  from  life  to  life.  In  the  soul  of  the  men  I 
loved,  the  fire  is  kindled  which  shall  avenge  me.  At  the 
blast  of  its  fury  the  gods  themselves  shall  wither,  and  long 
ages  after  they  have  shrivelled  like  beaten  lead  in  the  melt- 
ing-pot, the  fire  of  my  gift  shall  glow  and  quicken  in  the 
heart  of  man,  nor  shall  Ocean  himself  avail  to  quench  it. 
They  into  whose  blood  one  spark  of  it  has  entered  shall 
never  rest  from  their  defiance.  Titans  of  mankind,  pity 
and  wrath  shall  not  suffer  them  to  be  at  peace.  At  the 
breath  of  injustice  they  shall  blaze  into  fury,  sc  that  be- 
fore them  the  proclamations  of  heaven  and  earth  shall  shrink 
into  nothingness,  and  statues  of  stone  be  burnt  like  withered 
leaves.  All  the  wealth  and  power  of  the  world  shall  ally 
themselves  with  the  thunders  of  the  gods  to  tread  them 
down,  but  defeated  in  every  battle  they  shall  never  doubt 
of  victory,  for  the  conflict  is  their  reward,  and  in  the  blood 
of  their  suffering  they  shall  win  their  desire.  Lean  and  dis- 
quiet they  shall  be,  and  nothing  shall  tempt  them  from 
their  wrath.  No  paradise  of  delight  shall  give  them  com- 
fort, nor  can  their  indignation  be  appeased  by  all  the  prom- 
ises of  heaven.  Pinned  and  clamped  immovably  to  the 
rocks  of  fate,  scorched  by  derision,  frozen  by  the  indifferent 
stars,  torn  at  heart  by  the  winged  ministers  of  power,  they 
shall  not  temper  their  defiance,  though  the  world  were  one 
chrysolite,  to  be  theirs  in  exchange.  For  these  are  they 
who  dare  to  be  sad,  and  have  the  courage  to  mate  with 


THE  FIRE  OF  PROMETHEUS  173 

sorrow.  Unobserved  they  shall  toil  in  the  fields  or  pass  up 
and  down  the  streets  of  cities,  but  their  souls  are  wild  as 
the  desert  where  lions  tread  it  only.  Therefore  let  the  gods 
send  all  the  aviary  of  heaven  to  devour  my  heart,  let  them 
split  my  flesh  with  spikes  of  steel,  or  spurn  me  down  the 
crags  of  the  abyss  to  roll  with  earthquakes  in  the  furnaces 
of  hell — wherever  that  little  spark  shall  glimmer  in  man's 
soul,  there  my  avenger  goes.  O  children  of  men,  on  whom 
I  had  pity,  I  charge  you  never  suffer  the  flame  of  my  indig- 
nation to  die!  In  your  soul  from  age  to  age  it  shall  kindle, 
it  shall  work.  When  most  it  seems  to  sleep,  it  shall  but 
gather  rage  to  blaze  anew,  giving  you  no  peace  till  the  fury 
of  its  wrath  is  satisfied,  and  consuming  with  its  flickering 
tongue  the  fortresses  where  injustice  like  the  injustice  of  the 
gods  had  thought  to  dwell  everlastingly  at  ease  behind  its 
battlements.' 

"So  he  spoke,  and  the  sun's  edge  shot  above  the  line  of 
the  sea,  for  day  had  come  and  the  gods  were  at  ease  in 
heaven.  Then  I  departed  to  tend  my  goats,  and  as  I  went 
I  heard  upon  the  air  the  rustling  of  terrible  feathers,  and  a 
shadow  of  wings  swooped  over  the  reddening  ground.  That 
day  my  flocks  went  wandering  far,  for  I  paid  them  little 
heed,  so  hot  a  fire  burned  in  my  own  heart,  as  though 
kindled  by  the  breath  of  the  son  of  Earth.  From  that  time 
on  how  often  it  has  blazed  anew,  driving  me  into  the  very 
trough  of  war,  one  of  the  queerest  places  for  a  shepherd! 
For  though  I  am  but  an  old  god  from  the  country,  awe- 
struck and  speechless  before  the  glitter  and  threatening  at- 
titude of  all  military  men,  yet  I  have  taken  some  part,  as 
you  know,  in  many  battles,  as  on  that  far-off  day  when  I 
walked  up  and  down  the  front  at  Marathon  cleaving  skulls 
with  a  ploughshare,  so  that  the  fatted  ranks  of  wealth  and 
slavery  shivered  before  my  rustic  battle-axe." 

He  was  silent  for  a  time,  and  I  could  see  his  eyes  gleam- 
ing with  splendid  memories.  For  now  the  filmy  moon  had 
crossed  the  top  of  heaven,  and  faced  us  from  the  west. 

"Forgive  the  neighing  of  an  old  war-horse,"  he  said,  with 
a  sudden  smile.  "Every  one  forgives  that,  and  really  it 
seems  so  long  ago  I  can  scarcely  believe  I  am  the  same 


174  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

god.  But  it  is  still  longer  since  the  rage  of  the  Titans  was 
sent  sprawling  over  the  world,  and  the  son  of  Earth  was 
nailed  to  his  cliff;  and  yet  I  suppose  something  less  than 
two  hundred  pairs  of  lovers  have  sufficed  to  hand  on  life 
from  that  time  down  to  you.  Or  even  if  the  right  number 
were  four  hundred,  that  would  not  be  very  many — not  nearly 
half  as  many  as  the  men  lying  dead  on  this  hill  to-night — 
and  is  it  not  pleasant  to  think  of  all  the  lovers  dear  who 
have  been  happy  in  conveying  to  you  so  charming  a  gift 
as  life?  To  this  poor  peasant  here  it  was  conveyed  in  like 
manner,  though  by  a  more  numerous  succession,  for  the 
generations  of  the  poor  are  short.  And  with  his  blood  they 
handed  on  that  spark  of  Promethean  fire,  imparted  with 
greater  similitude  than  life  itself.  In  the  hearts  of  his 
creators  it  smouldered  and  glowed,  till  at  last  the  flame 
was  fanned  and  sped  him  on  so  that  here  he  lies,  blasted 
as  by  the  thunderbolt  of  Zeus." 

"Dear  son,"  he  said,  pushing  his  fingers  through  the  dead 
man's  hair,  "like  me  you  loved  the  light  and  rain  and  the 
sheep  upon  the  hills.  You  loved  the  ploughing  ox  and  the 
ripening  vines.  You  were  happy  eating  and  drinking,  and 
one  woman  at  least  liked  to  have  you  near  her.  What  was 
it  so  filled  your  soul  with  rage,  that  you  counted  all  those 
things  as  nothing  in  the  balance?  Suddenly  the  fire  grew 
hot,  its  smoke  stifled  your  utterance,  it  gleamed  in  flame. 
To  your  fury  it  would  have  been  a  light  task  to  have  stormed 
the  gates  of  heaven,  so  wild  a  blaze  streamed  along  your 
blood.  No  gifts,  no  terms,  no  promises  could  twist  you 
from  your  purpose;  you  could  but  kill  or  die.  Nothing  but 
death  could  hold  you  quiet,  and  now  you  are  quiet  indeed. 
Wonder  fills  me  as  I  behold  you,  of  so  great  a  passion  was 
this  small  body  the  shrine.  Consecrated  by  flame,  your  life 
was  as  the  life  of  gods,  and  by  the  sacrificial  fire  of  its  in- 
dignation it  has  been  consumed.  See,  then,  in  place  of  the 
purple  robes  of  sepulchre,  I  button  up  your  tattered  shirt, 
and  draw  your  sodden  trousers  straight.  For  the  caerulean 
fillets  of  death,  I  lay  your  weathered  and  sweated  cap  upon 
your  brows.  For  the  winged  sandals  of  Hermes,  conduc- 
tor of  souls,  I  tie  the  laces  of  your  heavy  boots  around  your 


THE  FIRE  OF  PROMETHEUS  175 

naked  feet.  And  for  the  fee  of  death's  river,  upon  your 
mouth  I  lay  the  kiss  of  reverence  and  awe." 

The  light  of  another  day  was  now  beginning  to  steal 
through  the  mist.  Hungry  and  worn  out,  I  lay  back  upon 
the  stones,  indifferent  to  whatever  might  befall,  and  I  heard 
no  more  till  there  came  a  scraping  of  nailed  boots  upon  rock 
and  a  murmur  of  low  voices.  Presently  some  one  kicked  me 
in  the  side,  and  cried  out: 

"Blest  if  he  isn't  one  of  us,  and  alive,  too!  And  we  were 
just  going  to  bury  him.  I  say,  you  there  1  What  are  you 
doing,  nursing  a  dead  enemy?" 

"Oh,  he's  an  enemy,  is  he?"  I  said,  getting  up;  "I  had 
quite  forgotten  there  was  such  a  thing." 

"He's  gone  clean  off  his  head,"  said  another.  "Lend  a 
hand  to  heave  the  body  down."  I  took  the  peasant's  arm, 
and  three  of  the  burying  party  held  his  other  limbs,  turning 
him  over  so  that  he  might  be  the  easier  to  carry.  Then 
with  a  cry  all  together,  we  raised  him  up  and  bore  him 
down  the  hill  to  where  the  dead  were  laid  out  in  a  row. 
His  head  nodded,  face  downwards,  between  his  shoulders. 

"Lift  up  a  bit,  or  you'll  knock  him  against  the  rocks," 
I  said  to  the  man  who  held  the  other  arm. 

"That  won't  do  him  much  damage,"  was  the  reply,  "but 
up  he  comes!" 


THE  MAN  WHO  PLAYED  UPON 
THE  LEAF1 

BY  ALGERNON  BLACKWOOD 

WHERE  the  Jura  pine-woods  push  the  fringe  of  their 
purple  cloak  down  the  slopes  till  the  vineyards  stop 
them  lest  they  should  troop  into  the  lake  of  Neu- 
chatel,  you  may  find  the  village  where  lived  the  Man  Who 
Played  Upon  the  Leaf. 

My  first  sight  of  him  was  genuinely  prophetic — that 
spring  evening  in  the  garden  cafe  of  the  little  mountain 
auberge.  But  before  I  saw  him  I  heard  him,  and  ever  after- 
wards the  sound  and  the  sight  have  remained  inseparable 
in  my  mind. 

Jean  Grospierre  and  Louis  Favre  were  giving  me  con- 
fused instructions — the  vin  rouge  of  Neuchatel  is  heady, 
you  know — as  to  the  best  route  up  the  Tete-de-Rang,  when 
a  thin,  wailing  music,  that  at  first  I  took  to  be  rising  wind, 
made  itself  heard  suddenly  among  the  apple  trees  at  the 
end  of  the  garden,  and  riveted  my  attention  with  a  thrill  of 
I  know  not  what. 

Favre's  description  of  the  bridle  path  over  Mont  Racine 
died  away;  then  Grospierre's  eyes  wandered  as  he,  too, 
stopped  to  listen;  and  at  the  same  moment  a  mongrel  dog 
of  indescribably  forlorn  appearance  came  whining  about  our 
table  under  the  walnut  tree. 

"It's  Ferret  ' Comment- va,'  the  man  who  plays  on  the 
leaf,"  said  Favre. 

"And  his  cursed  dog,"  added  Grospierre,  with  a  shrug  of 

1  From  "The  Lost  Valley."  By  permission  of  E.  P.  Dutton  and 
Company. 

176 


THE  MAN  WHO  PLAYED  UPON  THE  LEAF    177 

disgust.  And,  after  a  pause,  they  fell  again  to  quarrelling 
about  my  complicated  path  up  the  Tete-de-Rang. 

I  turned  from  them  in  the  direction  of  the  sound. 

The  dusk  was  falling.  Through  the  trees  I  saw  the  vine- 
yards sloping  down  a  mile  or  two  to  the  dark  blue  lake 
with  its  distant-shadowed  shore  and  the  white  line  of  misty 
Alps  in  the  sky  beyond.  Behind  us  the  forests  rose  in  folded 
purple  ridges  to  the  heights  of  Boudry  and  La  Tourne,  soft 
and  thick  like  carpets  of  cloud.  There  was  no  one  about 
in  the  cabaret.  I  heard  a  horse's  hoofs  in  the  village  street, 
a  rattle  of  pans  from  the  kitchen,  and  the  soft  roar  of  a 
train  climbing  the  mountain  railway  through  gathering 
darkness  towards  France — and,  singing  through  it  all,  like 
a  thread  of  silver  through  a  dream,  this  sweet  and  windy 
music. 

But  at  first  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen.  The  Man 
Who  Played  on  the  Leaf  was  not  visible,  though  I  stared 
hard  at  the  place  whence  the  sound  apparently  proceeded. 
The  effect,  for  a  moment,  was  almost  ghostly. 

Then,  down  there  among  the  shadows  of  fruit  trees  and 
small  pines,  something  moved,  and  I  became  aware  with  a 
start  that  the  little  sapin  I  had  been  looking  at  all  the  time 
was  really  not  a  tree,  but  a  man — hatless,  with  dark  face, 
loose  hair,  and  wearing  a  pelerine  over  his  shoulders.  How 
he  had  produced  this  singularly  vivid  impression  and  taken 
upon  himself  the  outline  and  image  of  a  tree  is  utterly  be- 
yond me  to  describe.  It  was,  doubtless,  some  swift  sugges- 
tion in  my  own  imagination  that  deceived  me.  .  .  .  Yet 
he  was  thin,  small,  straight,  and  his  flying  hair  and  spread- 
ing pelerine  somehow  pictured  themselves  in  the  network  of 
dusk  and  background  into  the  semblance,  I  suppose,  of 
branches. 

I  merely  record  my  impression  with  the  truest  available 
words — also  my  instant  persuasion  that  this  first  view  of 
the  man  was,  after  all,  significant  and  prophetic:  his  domi- 
nant characteristics  presented  themselves  to  me  symbolically. 
I  saw  the  man  first  as  a  tree;  I  heard  his  music  first  as 
wind. 

Then,  as  he  came  slowly  towards  us,  it  was  clear  that 


178  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

he  produced  the  sound  by  blowing  upon  a  leaf  held  to  his 
lips  between  tightly  closed  hands.  And  at  his  heel  followed 
the  mongrel  dog. 

"The  inseparables!"  sneered  Grospierre,  who  did  not  ap- 
preciate the  interruption.  He  glanced  contemptuously  at 
the  man  and  the  dog,  his  face  and  manner,  it  seemed  to 
me,  conveying  a  merest  trace,  however,  of  superstitious 
fear.  "The  tune  your  father  taught  you,  hein?"  he  added, 
with  a  cruel  allusion  I  did  not  at  the  moment  under- 
stand. 

"Hush!"  Favre  said;  "he  plays  thunderingly  well  all 
the  same!"  His  glass  had  not  been  emptied  quite  so  often, 
and  in  his  eyes  as  he  listened  there  was  a  touch  of  some- 
thing that  was  between  respect  and  wonder. 

"The  music  of  the  devil,"  Grospierre  muttered  as  he 
turned  with  the  gesture  of  surly  impatience  to  the  wine  and 
the  rye  bread.  "It  makes  me  dream  at  night.  Ooua!" 

The  man,  paying  tio  attention  to  the  gibes,  came  closer, 
continuing  his  leaf-music,  and  as  I  watched  and  listened 
the  thrill  that  had  first  stirred  in  me  grew  curiously.  To 
look  at,  he  was  perhaps  forty,  perhaps  fifty;  worn,  thin, 
broken;  and  something  seizingly  pathetic  in  his  appearance 
told  its  little  wordless  story  into  the  air.  The  stamp  of 
the  outcast  was  mercilessly  upon  him.  But  the  eyes  were 
dark  and  fine.  They  proclaimed  the  possession  of  some- 
thing that  was  neither  worn  nor  broken,  something  that 
was  proud  to  be  outcast,  and  welcomed  it. 

"He's  cracky,  you  know,"  explained  Favre,  "and  half 
blind.  He  lives  in  that  hut  on  the  edge  of  the  forest" — 
pointing  with  his  thumb  toward  Cotendard — "and  plays  on 
the  leaf  for  what  he  can  earn." 

We  listened  for  five  minutes  perhaps  while  this  singular 
being  stood  there  in  the  dusk  and  piped  his  weird  tunes; 
and  if  imagination  had  influenced  my  first  sight  of  him  it 
certainly  had  nothing  to  do  with  what  I  now  heard.  For  it 
was  unmistakable;  the  man  played,  not  mere  tunes  and 
melodies,  but  the  clean,  strong,  elemental  sounds  of  Nature 
— especially  the  crying  voices  of  wind.  It  was  the  raw 
material,  if  you  like,  of  what  the  masters  have  used  here 


THE  MAN  WHO  PLAYED  UPON  THE  LEAP    179 

and  there — Wagner,  and  so  forth — but  by  him  heard  closely 
and  wonderfully,  and  produced  with  marvellous  accuracy. 
It  was  now  the  notes  of  birds  or  the  tinkle  and  rustle  of 
sounds  heard  in  groves  and  copses,  and  now  the  murmur 
of  those  airs  that  lose  their  way  on  summer  noons  among 
the  tree  tops;  and  then,  quite  incredibly,  just  as  the  man 
came  closer  and  the  volume  increased,  it  grew  to  the  cry- 
ing of  bigger  winds  and  the  whispering  rush  of  rain  among 
tossed  branches.  .  .  . 

How  he  produced  it  passed  my  comprehension,  but  I 
think  he  somehow  mingled  his  own  voice  with  the  actual 
notes  of  the  vibrating  edge  of  the  leaf;  perhaps,  too,  that 
the  strange  passion  shaking  behind  it  all  in  the  depths 
of  the  bewildered  spirit  poured  out  and  reached  my  mind 
by  ways  unknown  and  incalculable. 

I  must  have  momentarily  lost  myself  in  the  soft  magic 
of  it,  for  I  remember  coming  back  with  a  start  to  notice  that 
the  man  had  stopped,  and  that  his  melancholy  face  was 
turned  to  me  with  a  smile  of  comprehension  and  sympathy 
that  passed  again  almost  before  I  had  time  to  recognise  it, 
and  certainly  before  I  had  time  to  reply.  And  this  time 
I  am  ready  to  admit  that  it  was  my  own  imagination,  singu- 
larly stirred,  that  translated  his  smile  into  the  words  that 
no  one  else  heard — 

"I  was  playing  for  you — because  you  understand." 

Favre  was  standing  up  and  I  saw  him  give  the  man  the 
half  loaf  of  coarse  bread  that  was  on  the  table,  offering  also 
his  own  partly-emptied  wine-glass.  "I  haven't  the  sou  to- 
day," he  was  saying,  "but  if  you're  hungry,  mon  brave ~1 

And  the  man,  refusing  the  wine,  took  the  bread  with  an  air 
of  dignity  that  precluded  all  suggestion  of  patronage  or 
favour,  and  ought  to  have  made  Favre  feel  proud  that  he 
had  offered  it. 

"And  that  for  his  son!"  laughed  the  stupid  Grospierre, 
tossing  a  cheese-rind  to  the  dog,  "or  for  his  forest  god!" 

The  music  was  about  me  like  a  net  that  still  held  my 
words  and  thoughts  in  a  delicate  bondage — which  is  my 
only  explanation  for  not  silencing  the  coarse  guide  in  the 
way  he  deserved;  but  a  few  minutes  later,  when  the  men, 


i8o  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

had  gone  into  the  inn,  I  crossed  to  the  end  of  the  garden, 
and  there,  where  the  perfumes  of  orchard  and  forest  de- 
liciously  mingled,  I  came  upon  the  man  sitting  on  the  grass 
beneath  an  apple-tree.  The  dog,  wagging  its  tail,  was  at  his 
feet,  as  he  fed  it  with  the  best  and  largest  portions  of  the 
bread.  For  himself,  it  seemed,  he  kept  nothing  but  the 
crust,  and — what  I  could  hardly  believe,  had  I  not  actually 
witnessed  it — the  cur,  though  clearly  hungry,  had  to  be 
coaxed  with  smiles  and  kind  words  to  eat  what  he  realised 
in  some  dear  dog-fashion  was  needed  even  more  by  his 
master.  A  pair  of  outcasts  they  looked  indeed,  sharing 
dry  bread  in  the  back  garden  of  the  village  inn ;  but  in  the 
soft  discerning  eyes  of  that  mangy  creature  there  was  an 
expression  that  raised  it,  for  me  at  least,  far  beyond  the 
ranks  of  common  curdom;  and  in  the  eyes  of  the  man, 
half-witted  and  pariah  as  he  undoubtedly  was,  a  look  that 
set  him  somewhere  in  a  lonely  place  where  he  heard  the 
still,  small  voices  of  the  world  and  moved  with  the  ele- 
mental tides  of  life  that  are  never  outcast  and  that  in- 
clude the  farthest  suns. 

He  took  the  franc  I  offered;  and,  closer,  I  perceived 
that  his  eyes,  for  all  their  moments  of  fugitive  brilliance, 
were  indeed  half  sightless,  and  that  perhaps  he  saw  only 
well  enough  to  know  men  as  trees  walking.  In  the  village 
some  said  he  saw  better  than  most,  that  he  saw  in  the 
dark,  possibly  even  into  the  peopled  regions  beyond  this 
world,  and  there  were  reasons — uncanny  reasons — to  explain 
the  belief.  I  only  know,  at  any  rate,  that  from  this  first 
moment  of  our  meeting  he  never  failed  to  recognise  me  at 
a  considerable  distance,  and  to  be  aware  of  my  whereabouts 
even  in  the  woods  at  night;  and  the  best  explanation  I 
ever  heard,  though  of  course  unscientific,  was  Louis  Favre's 
whispered  communication  that  "he  sees  with  the  whole  sur- 
face of  his  skin!" 

He  took  the  franc  with  the  same  air  of  grandeur  that 
he  took  the  bread,  as  though  he  conferred  a  favour,  yet  was 
grateful.  The  beauty  of  that  gesture  has  often  come  back 
to  me  since  with  a  sense  of  wonder  for  the  sweet  nobility 
that  I  afterwards  understood  inspired  it.  At  the  time, 


THE  MAN  WHO  PLAYED  UPON  THE  LEAF    181 

however,  he  merely  looked  up  at  me  with  the  remark,  "C'est 
pour  le  Dieu merci!" 

He  did  not  say  "le  bon  Dieu,"  as  every  one  else  did. 

And  though  I  had  meant  to  get  into  conversation  with 
him,  I  found  no  words  quickly  enough,  for  he  at  once  stood 
up  and  began  to  play  again  on  his  leaf ;  and  while  he  played 
his  thanks  and  gratitude,  or  the  thanks  and  gratitude  of  his 
God,  that  shaggy  mongrel  dog  stopped  eating  and  sat  up 
beside  him  to  listen.  Both  fixed  their  eyes  upon  me  as  the 
sounds  of  wind  and  birds  and  forest  poured  softly  and  won- 
derfully about  my  ears  ...  so  that,  when  it  was  over 
and  I  went  down  the  quiet  street  to  my  pension,  I  was 
aware  that  some  tiny  sense  of  bewilderment  had  crept  into 
the  profounder  regions  of  my  consciousness  and  faintly  dis- 
turbed my  oormal  conviction  that  I  belonged  to  the  com- 
mon world  of  men  as  of  old.  Some  aspect  of  the  village, 
especially  of  the  human  occupants  in  it,  had  secretly 
changed  for  me. 

Those  pearly  spaces  of  sky,  where  the  bats  flew  over  the 
red  roofs,  seemed  more  alive,  more  exquisite  than  before; 
the  smells  of  the  open  stables  where  the  cows  stood  munch- 
ing, more  fragrant  than  usual  of  sweet  animal  life  that  in- 
cluded myself  delightfully,  keenly ;  the  last  chatterings  of  the 
sparrows  under  the  eaves  of  my  own  pension  more  inti- 
mate and  personal.  .  .  . 

Almost  as  if  those  strands  of  elemental  music  the  man 
played  on  his  leaf  had  for  the  moment  made  me  free  of  the 
life  of  the  earth,  as  distinct  from  the  life  of  men.  .  .  . 

I  can  only  suggest  this,  and  leave  the  rest  to  the  care 
of  the  imaginative  reader;  for  it  is  impossible  to  say  along 
what  inner  byways  of  fancy  I  reached  the  conclusion  that 
when  the  man  spoke  of  "the  God,"  and  not  "the  good  God," 
he  intended  to  convey  his  sense  of  some  great  woodland 
personality — some  Spirit  of  the  Forests  whom  he  knew  and 
loved  and  worshipped,  and  whom,  he  was  intuitively  aware, 
I  also  knew  and  loved  and  worshipped. 

During  the  next  few  weeks  I  came  to  learn  more  about 
this  poor,  half-witted  man.  In  the  village  he  was  known 


i82   THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

as  Ferret  "Comment-va,"  the  Man  Who  Plays  on  the  Leaf; 
but  when  the  people  wished  to  be  more  explicit  they  de- 
scribed him  as  the  man  "without  parents  and  without  God." 
The  origin  of  " Comment-va"  I  never  discovered,  but  the 
other  titles  were  easily  explained — he  was  illegitimate  and 
outcast.  The  mother  had  been  a  wandering  Italian  girl 
and  the  father  a  loose-living  bucheron,  who  was,  it  seems, 
a  standing  disgrace  to  the  community.  I  think  the  villagers 
were  not  conscious  of  their  severity;  the  older  generation  of 
farmers  and  vignerons  had  pity,  but  the  younger  ones  and 
those  of  his  own  age  were  certainly  guilty,  if  not  of  deliber- 
ate cruelty,  at  least  of  a  harsh  neglect  and  the  utter  with- 
holding of  sympathy.  It  was  like  the  thoughtless  cruelty 
of  children,  due  to  small  unwisdom,  and  to  that  absence  of 
charity  which  is  based  on  ignorance.  They  could  not  in  the 
least  understand  this  crazy,  picturesque  being  who  wandered 
day  and  night  in  the  forests  and  spoke  openly,  though  never 
quite  intelligibly,  of  worshipping  another  God  than  their 
own  anthropomorphic  deity.  People  looked  askance  at  him 
because  he  was  queer;  a  few  feared  him;  one  or  two  I 
found  later — all  women — felt  vaguely  that  there  was  some- 
thing in  him  rather  wonderful,  they  hardly  knew  what, 
that  lifted  him  beyond  the  reach  of  village  taunts  and 
sneers.  But  from  all  he  was  remote,  alien,  solitary — an  out- 
cast and  a  pariah. 

It  so  happened  that  I  was  very  busy  at  the  time,  seeking 
the  seclusion  of  the  place  for  my  work,  and  rarely  going 
out  until  the  day  was  failing;  and  so  it  was,  I  suppose,  that 
my  sight  of  the  man  was  always  associated  with  a  gentle 
dusk,  long  shadows  and  slanting  rays  of  sunlight.  Every 
time  I  saw  that  thin,  straight,  yet  broken  figure,  every  time 
the  music  of  the  leaf  reached  me,  there  came,  too,  the  in- 
explicable thrill  of  secret  wonder  and  delight  that  had 
first  accompanied  his  presence,  and  with  it  the  subtle  sug- 
gestion of  a  haunted  woodland  life,  beautiful  with  new 
values.  To  this  day  I  see  that  sad,  dark  face  moving  about 
the  street,  touched  with  melancholy,  yet  with  the  singular 
light  of  an  inner  glory,  that  sometimes  lit  flames  in  the 
poor  eyes.  Perhaps — the  fancy  entered  my  thoughts  some- 


THE  MAN  WHO  PLAYED  UPON  THE  LEAF    183 

times  when  I  passed  him — those  who  are  half  out  of  their 
minds,  as  the  saying  goes,  are  at  the  same  time  half  in 
another  region  whose  penetrating  loveliness  has  so  be- 
wildered and  amazed  them  that  they  no  longer  can  play 
their  dull  part  in  our  commonplace  world;  and  certainly 
for  me  this  man's  presence  never  failed  to  convey  an  aware- 
ness of  some  hidden  and  secret  beauty  that  he  knew  apart 
from  the  ordinary  haunts  and  pursuits  of  men. 

Often  I  followed  him  up  into  the  woods — in  spite  of  the 
menacing  growls  of  the  dog,  who  invariably  showed  his  teeth 
lest  I  should  approach  too  close — with  a  great  longing  to 
know  what  he  did  there  and  how  he  spent  his  time  wander- 
ing in  the  great  forests,  sometimes,  I  was  assured,  staying 
out  entire  nights  or  remaining  away  for  days  together. 
For  in  these  Jura  forests  that  cover  the  mountains  from 
Neuchatel  to  Yverdon,  and  stretch  thickly  up  to  the  very 
frontiers  of  France,  you  may  walk  for  days  without  finding 
a  farm  or  meeting  more  than  an  occasional  bucheron.  And 
at  length,  after  weeks  of  failure,  and  by  some  process  of 
sympathy  he  apparently  communicated  in  turn  to  the  dog, 
it  came  about  that  I  was — accepted.  I  was  allowed  to  fol- 
low at  a  distance,  to  listen  and,  if  I  could,  to  watch. 

I  make  use  of  the  conditional,  because  once  in  the  forest 
this  man  had  the  power  of  concealing  himself  in  the  same 
way  that  certain  animals  and  insects  conceal  themselves  by 
choosing  places  instinctively  where  the  colours  of  their  sur- 
roundings merge  into  their  outlines  and  obliterate  them. 
So  long  as  he  moved  all  was  well;  but  the  moment  he 
stopped  and  a  chance  dell  or  cluster  of  trees  intervened  I  lost 
sight  of  him,  and  more  than  once  passed  within  a  foot  of  his 
presence  without  knowing  it,  though  the  dog  was  plainly 
there  at  his  feet.  And  the  instant  I  turned  at  the  sound  of 
the  leaf,  there  he  was,  leaning  against  some  dark  tree-stem, 
part  of  a  shadow  perhaps,  growing  like  a  forest-thing  out 
of  the  thick  moss  that  hid  his  feet,  or  merging  with  extraor- 
dinary intimacy  into  the  fronds  of  some  drooping  pine 
bough!  Moreover,  this  concealment  was  never  intentional, 
it  seems,  but  instinctive.  The  life  to  which  he  belonged 
took  him  close  to  its  heart,  draping  about  the  starved  and 


1 84  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

wasted  shoulders  the  cloak  of  kindly  sympathy  which  the 
world  of  men  denied  him. 

And,  while  I  took  my  place  some  little  way  off  upon  a 
fallen  stem,  and  the  dog  sat  looking  up  into  his  face  with 
its  eyes  of  yearning  and  affection,  Ferret  "Comment-va" 
would  take  a  leaf  from  the  nearest  ivy,  raise  it  between 
tightly  pressed  palms  to  his  lips  and  begin  that  magic  sound 
that  seemed  to  rise  out  of  the  forest-voices  themselves  rather 
than  to  be  a  thing  apart. 

It  was  a  late  evening  towards  the  end  of  May  when  I 
first  secured  this  privilege  at  close  quarters,  and  the  mem- 
ory of  it  lives  in  me  still  with  the  fragrance  and  wonder 
of  some  incredible  dream.  The  forest  just  there  was  scented 
with  wild  lilies  of  the  valley  which  carpeted  the  more  open 
spaces  with  their  white  bells  and  big,  green  leaves;  patches 
of  violets  and  pale  anemone  twinkled  down  the  mossy  stair- 
ways of  every  glade;  and  through  slim  openings  among  the 
pine-stems  I  saw  the  shadowed  blues  of  the  lake  beyond  and 
the  far  line  of  the  high  Alps,  soft  and  cloud-like  in  the  sky. 
Already  the  woods  were  drawing  the  dusk  out  of  the  earth 
to  cloak  themselves  for  sleep,  and  in  the  east  a  rising  moon 
stared  close  over  the  ground  between  the  big  trees,  dropping 
trails  of  faint  and  yellowish  silver  along  the  moss.  Dis- 
tant cow-bells,  and  an  occasional  murmur  of  village  voices, 
reached  the  ear.  But  a  deep  hush  lay  over  all  that  mighty 
slope  of  mountain  forest,  and  even  the  footsteps  of  our- 
selves and  the  dog  had  come  to  rest. 

Then,  as  sounds  heard  in  a  dream,  a  breeze  stirred  the» 
topmost  branches  of  the  pines,  filtering  down  to  us  as  from 
the  wings  of  birds.  It  brought  new  odours  of  sky  and  sun- 
kissed  branches  with  it.  A  moment  later  it  lost  itself  in  the 
darkening  aisles  of  forest  beyond;  and  out  of  the  stillness 
that  followed,  I  heard  the  strange  music  of  the  leaf  rising 
about  us  with  its  extraordinary  power  of  suggestion. 

And,  turning  to  see  the  face  of  the  player  more  closely, 
I  saw  that  it  had  marvellously  changed,  had  become  young, 
unlined,  soft  with  joy.  The  spirit  of  the  immense  woods 
possessed  him,  and  he  was  at  peace.  .  .  . 


THE  MAN  WHO  PLAYED  UPON  THE  LEAF    185 

While  he  played,  too,  he  swayed  a  little  to  and  fro,  just 
as  a  slender  sapin  sways  in  wind,  and  a  revelation  came  to 
me  of  that  strange  beauty  of  combined  sound  and  move- 
ment— trees  bending  while  they  sing,  branches  trembling 
and  a-whisper,  children  that  laugh  while  they  dance.  And, 
oh,  the  crying,  plaintive  notes  of  that  leaf,  and  the  pro- 
found sense  of  elemental  primitive  sound  that  they  woke  in 
the  penetralia  of  the  imagination,  subtly  linking  simplicity 
to  grandeur!  Terribly  yet  sweetly  penetrating,  how  they 
searched  the  heart  through,  and  troubled  the  very  sources 
of  life!  Often  and  often  since  have  I  wondered  what  it 
was  in  that  singular  music  that  made  me  know  the  distant 
Alps  listened  in  their  sky-spaces,  and  that  the  purple  slopes 
of  Boudry  and  Mont  Racine  bore  it  along  the  spires  of 
their  woods  as  though  giant  harp-strings  stretched  to  the 
far  summits  of  Chasseral  and  the  arid  wastes  of  Tete-de- 
Rang. 

In  the  music  this  outcast  played  upon  the  leaf  there  was 
something  of  a  wild,  mad  beauty  that  plunged  like  a  knife 
to  the  home  of  tears,  and  at  the  same  time  sang  out  beyond 
them — something  coldly  elemental,  close  to  the  naked  heart 
of  life.  The  truth,  doubtless,  was  that  his  strains,  making 
articulate  the  sounds  of  Nature,  touched  deep,  primitive 
yearnings  that  for  many  are  buried  beyond  recall.  And  be- 
tween the  airs,  even  between  the  bars,  there  fell  deep  weep- 
ing silences  when  the  sounds  merged  themselves  into  the 
sigh  of  wind  or  the  murmur  of  falling  water,  just  as  the 
strange  player  merged  his  body  into  the  form  and  colour  of 
the  trees  about  him. 

And  when  at  last  he  ceased,  I  went  close  to  him,  hardly 
knowing  what  it  was  I  wanted  so  much  to  ask  or  say.  He 
straightened  up  at  my  approach.  The  melancholy  dropped 
its  veil  upon  his  face  instantly. 

"But  that  was  beautiful— unearthly!"  I  faltered.  "You 
never  have  played  like  that  in  the  village " 

And  for  a  second  his  eyes  lit  up  as  he  pointed  to  the 
dark  spaces  of  forest  behind  us: 

"In  there,"  he  said  softly,  "there  is  light!" 

"You  hear  true  music  in  these  woods,"  I  ventured,  hop- 


186  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

ing  to  draw  him  out;  "this  music  you  play — this  exquisite 
singing  of  winds  and  trees ?" 

He  looked  at  me  with  a  puzzled  expression  and  I  knew, 
of  course,  that  I  had  blundered  with  my  banal  words.  Then, 
before  I  could  explain  or  alter,  there  floated  to  us  through 
the  trees  a  sound  of  church  bells  from  villages  far  away; 
and  instantly,  as  he  heard,  his  face  grew  dark,  as  though  he 
understood  in  some  vague  fashion  that  it  was  a  symbol  of 
the  faith  of  those  parents  who  had  wronged  him,  and  of  the 
people  who  continually  made  him  suffer.  Something  of  this, 
I  feel  sure,  passed  through  his  tortured  mind,  for  he  looked 
menacingly  about  him,  and  the  dog,  who  caught  the  shadow 
of  all  his  moods,  began  to  growl  angrily. 

"My  music,"  he  said,  with  a  sudden  abruptness  that  was 
almost  fierce,  "is  for  my  God." 

"Your  God  of  the  Forests?"  I  said,  with  a  real  sympathy 
that  I  believe  reached  him. 

"Pour  sur!  Pour  sur!  I  play  it  all  over  the  world" — he 
looked  about  him  down  the  slopes  of  villages  and  vineyards 
— "and  for  those  who  understand — those  who  belong — to 
come." 

He  was,  I  felt  sure,  going  to  say  more,  perhaps  to  un- 
bosom himself  to  me  a  little;  and  I  might  have  learned 
something  of  the  ritual  this  self-appointed  priest  of  Pan  fol- 
lowed in  his  forest  temples — when,  the  sound  of  the  bells 
swelled  suddenly  on  the  wind,  and  he  turned  with  an  angry 
gesture  and  made  to  go.  Their  insolence,  penetrating  even 
to  the  privacy  of  his  secret  woods,  was  too  much  for  him. 

"And  you  find  many?"  I  asked. 

Ferret  "Contment-va"  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  smiled 
pityingly. 

"Mot.    Puis  le  Men — puts  maintenant — vous!" 

He  was  gone  the  same  minute,  as  if  the  branches  stretched 
out  dark  arms  to  draw  him  away  among  them,  .  .  .  and 
on  my  way  back  to  the  village,  by  the  growing  light  of  the 
moon,  I  heard  far  away  in  that  deep  world  of  a  million 
trees  the  echoes  of  a  weird,  sweet  music,  as  this  unwit- 
ting votary  of  Pan  piped  and  fluted  to  his  mighty  God 
upon  an  ivy  leaf. 


THE  MAN  WHO  PLAYED  UPON  THE  LEAF     187 

And  the  last  thing  I  actually  saw  was  the  mongrel  cur 
turning  back  from  the  edge  of  the  forest  to  look  at  me 
for  a  moment  of  hesitation.  He  thought  it  was  time  now 
that  I  should  join  the  little  band  of  worshippers  and  follow 
them  to  the  haunted  spots  of  worship. 

"Moi — puis  le  chien — puis  maintenant — vous!" 

From  that  moment  of  speech  a  kind  of  unexpressed  in- 
timacy between  us  came  into  being,  and  whenever  we  passed 
one  another  in  the  street  he  would  give  me  a  swift,  happy 
look,  and  jerk  his  head  significantly  towards  the  forests. 
The  feeling  that,  perhaps,  in  his  curious  lonely  existence  I 
counted  for  something  important  made  me  very  careful 
with  him.  From  time  to  time  I  gave  him  a  few  francs,  and 
regularly  twice  a  week  when  I  knew  he  was  away,  I  used  to 
steal  unobserved  to  his  hut  on  the  edge  of  the  forest  and 
put  parcels  of  food  inside  the  door — salame,  cheese,  bread; 
and  on  one  or  two  occasions  when  I  had  been  extravagant 
with  my  own  tea,  pieces  of  plum-cake — what  the  Colombier 
baker  called  plume-cak'/ 

He  never  acknowledged  these  little  gifts,  and  I  some- 
times wondered  to  what  use  he  put  them,  for  though  the 
dog  remained  well  favoured,  so  far  as  any  cur  can  be  so, 
he  himself  seemed  to  waste  away  more  rapidly  than  ever. 
I  found,  too,  that  he  did  receive  help  from  the  village — 
official  help — but  that  after  the  night  when  he  was  caught 
on  the  church  steps  with  an  oil  can,  kindling-wood  and  a 
box  of  matches,  this  help  was  reduced  by  half,  and  the 
threat  made  to  discontinue  it  altogether.  Yet  I  feel  sure 
there  was  no  inherent  maliciousness  in  the  Man  Who  Played 
upon  the  Leaf,  and  that  his  hatred  of  an  "alien"  faith  was 
akin  to  the  mistaken  zeal  that  in  other  days  could  send 
poor  sinners  to  the  stake  for  the  ultimate  safety  of  their 
souls. 

Two  things,  moreover,  helped  to  foster  the  tender  be- 
lief I  had  in  his  innate  goodness:  first,  that  all  the  children 
of  the  village  loved  him  and  were  unafraid,  to  the  point  of 
playing  with  him  and  pulling  him  about  as  though  he  were 
a  big  dog;  and,  secondly,  that  his  devotion  for  the  mongrel 


1 88  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

hound,  his  equal  and  fellow-worshipper,  went  to  the  length 
of  genuine  self-sacrifice.  I  could  never  forget  how  he  fed  it 
with  the  best  of  the  bread,  when  his  own  face  was  pinched 
and  drawn  with  hunger ;  and  on  other  occasions  I  saw  many 
similar  proofs  of  his  unselfish  affection.  His  love  for  that 
mongrel,  never  uttered,  in  my  presence  at  least,  perhaps 
unrecognised  as  love  even  by  himself,  must  surely  have 
risen  in  some  form  of  music  or  incense  to  sweeten  the  very 
halls  of  heaven. 

In  the  woods  I  came  across  him  anywhere  and  every- 
where, sometimes  so  unexpectedly  that  it  occurred  to  me 
he  must  have  followed  me  stealthily  for  long  distances.  And 
once,  in  that  very  lonely  stretch  above  the  mountain  rail- 
way, toward  Montmollin,  where  the  trees  are  spaced  apart 
with  an  effect  of  cathedral  aisles  and  Gothic  arches,  he 
caught  me  suddenly  and  did  something  that  for  a  moment 
caused  me  a  thrill  of  genuine  alarm. 

Wild  lilies  of  the  valley  grow  very  thickly  thereabouts, 
and  the  ground  falls  into  a  natural  hollow  that  shuts  it 
off  from  the  rest  of  the  forest  with  a  peculiar  and  delightful 
sense  of  privacy;  and  when  I  came  across  it  for  the  first 
time  I  stopped  with  a  sudden  feeling  of  quite  bewildering 
enchantment — with  a  kind  of  childish  awe  that  caught  my 
breath  as  though  I  had  slipped  through  some  fairy  door  or 
blundered  out  of  the  ordinary  world  into  a  place  of  holy 
ground  where  solemn  and  beautiful  things  were  the  order  of 
the  day. 

I  waited  a  moment  and  looked  about  me.  It  was  utterly 
still.  The  haze  of  the  day  had  given  place  to  an  evening 
clarity  of  atmosphere  that  gave  the  world  an  appearance  of 
having  just  received  its  finishing  touches  of  pristine  beauty. 
The  scent  of  the  lilies  was  overpoweringly  sweet.  But  the 
whole  first  impression — before  I  had  time  to  argue  it  away 
— was  that  I  stood  before  some  mighty  chancel  steps  on  the 
eve  of  a  secret  festival  of  importance,  and  that  all  was 
prepared  and  decorated  with  a  view  to  the  coming  cere- 
mony. The  hush  was  the  most  delicate  and  profound 
imaginable — almost  forbidding.  I  was  a  rude  disturber. 

Then,  without  any  sound  of  approaching  footsteps,  my 


THE  MAN  WHO  PLAYED  UPON  THE  LEAF    189 

hat  was  lifted  from  my  head,  and  when  I  turned  with  a 
sudden  start  of  alarm,  there  before  me  stood  Ferret  "Com- 
ment-'Da"  the  Man  Who  Played  upon  the  Leaf. 

An  extraordinary  air  of  dignity  hung  about  him.  His 
face  was  stern,  yet  rapt;  something  in  his  eyes  genuinely 
impressive;  and  his  whole  appearance  produced  the  instant 
impression — it  touched  me  with  a  fleeting  sense  of  awe — 
that  here  I  had  come  upon  him  in  the  very  act — had  sur- 
prised this  poor,  broken  being  in  some  dramatic  moment 
when  his  soul  sought  to  find  its  own  peculiar  region,  and  to 
transform  itself  into  loveliness  through  some  process  of 
outward  worship. 

He  handed  the  hat  back  to  me  without  a  word,  and  I 
understood  that  I  had  unwittingly  blundered  into  the  se- 
cret place  of  his  strange  cult,  some  shrine,  as  it  were, 
haunted  doubly  by  his  faith  and  imagination,  perhaps  even 
into  his  very  Holy  of  Holies.  His  own  head,  as  usual,  was 
bared.  I  could  no  more  have  covered  myself  again  than  I 
could  have  put  my  hat  on  in  Communion  service  of  my  own 
church. 

"But — this  wonderful  place — this  peace,  this  silence!"  I 
murmured,  with  the  best  manner  of  apology  for  the  intru- 
sion I  could  muster  on  the  instant.  "May  I  stay  a  little 
with  you,  perhaps — and  see?" 

And  his  face  passed  almost  immediately,  when  he  realised 
that  I  understood,  into  that  soft  and  happy  expression  the 
woods  invariably  drew  out  upon  it — the  look  of  the  soul, 
complete  and  healed. 

"Hush!"  he  whispered,  his  face  solemn  with  the  mystery 
of  the  listening  trees;  "Vous  etes  un  peu  en  retard — mais 
pourtant.  .  .  ." 

And  lifting  the  leaf  to  his  lips  he  played  a  soft  and  whir- 
ring music  that  had  for  its  undercurrent  the  sounds  of  run- 
ning water  and  singing  wind  mingled  exquisitely  together. 
It  was  half  chant,  half  song,  solemn  enough  for  the  dead, 
yet  with  a  strain  of  soaring  joy  in  it  that  made  me  think  of 
children  and  a  perfect  faith.  The  music  blessed  me,  and 
the  leagues  of  forest,  listening,  poured  about  us  all  their 
healing  forces. 


IQO  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

I  swear  it  would  not  have  greatly  surprised  me  to  see  the 
shaggy  flanks  of  Pan  himself  disappearing  behind  the  moss- 
grown  boulders  that  lay  about  the  hollows,  or  to  have 
caught  the  flutter  of  white  limbs  as  the  nymphs  stepped  to 
the  measure  of  his  tune  through  the  mosaic  of  slanting  sun- 
shine and  shadow  beyond. 

Instead,  I  saw  only  that  picturesque  madman  playing 
upon  his  ivy  leaf,  and  at  his  feet  the  faithful  dog  staring  up 
without  blinking  into  his  face,  from  time  to  time  turning 
to  make  sure  that  I  listened  and  understood. 

But  the  desolate  places  drew  him  most,  and  no  distance 
seemed  too  great  either  for  himself  or  his  dog. 

In  this  part  of  the  Jura  there  is  scenery  of  a  sombre  and 
impressive  grandeur  that,  in  its  way,  is  quite  as  majestic 
as  the  revelation  of  far  bigger  mountains.  The  general 
appearance  of  soft  blue  pine  woods  is  deceptive.  The 
Boudry  cliffs,  slashed  here  and  there  with  inaccessible  cou- 
loirs, are  undeniably  grand,  and  in  the  sweep  of  the  Creux 
du  Van  precipices  there  is  a  splendid  terror  quite  as  solemn 
as  that  of  the  Matterhorn  itself.  The  shadows  of  its  smooth, 
circular  walls  deny  the  sun  all  day,  and  the  winds,  caught 
within  the  yooft.  sides  of  its  huge  amphitheatre,  as  in  the 
hollow  of  some  awful  cup,  boom- and  roar  with  the  crying 
of  lost  thunders. 

I  often  met  him  in  these  lonely  fastnesses,  wearing  that 
half-bewildered,  half-happy  look  of  the  wandering  child; 
and  cne  day  in  particular,  when  I  risked  my  neck  scrambling 
up  the  most  easterly  of  the  Boudry  couloirs,  I  learned  after- 
wards that  he  had  spent  the  whole  time — four  hours  and 
more — on  the  little  Champ  de  Tremont  at  the  bottom, 
watching  me  with  his  dog  till  I  arrived  in  safety  at  the  top. 
His  fellow-worshippers  were  few,  he  explained,  and  worth 
keeping;  though  it  was  ever  inexplicable  to  me  how  his 
poor  damaged  eyes  performed  the  marvels  of  sight  they 
did. 

And  another  time,  at  night,  when,  I  admit,  no  sane  man 
should  have  been  abroad,  and  I  had  lost  my  way  coming 
home  from  a  climb  along  the  torn  and  precipitous  ledges 


THE  MAN  WHO  PLAYED  UPON  THE  LEAF     191 

of  La  Tourne,  I  heard  his  leaf  thinly  piercing  the  storm, 
always  in  front  of  me  yet  never  overtaken,  a  sure  though  in- 
visible guide.  The  cliffs  on  that  descent  are  sudden  and 
treacherous.  The  torrent  of  the  Areuse,  swollen  with  the 
melting  snows,  thundered  ominously  far  below;  and  the 
forests  swung  their  vast  wet  cloaks  about  them  with  tor- 
rents of  blinding  rain  and  clouds  of  darkness — yet  all  fra- 
grant with  warm  wind  as  a  virgin  world  answering  to  its  first 
spring  tempest.  There  he  was,  the  outcast  with  his  leaf, 
playing  to  his  God  amid  all  these  crashings  and  bellow- 
ings.  .  .  . 

In  the  night,  too,  when  skies  were  quiet  and  stars  a-gleam, 
or  in  the  still  watches  before  the  dawn,  I  would  sometimes 
wake  with  the  sound  of  clustered  branches  combing  faint 
music  from  the  gently-rising  wind,  and  figure  to  myself  that 
strange,  lost  creature  wandering  with  his  dog  and  leaf,  his 
ptterine,  his  flying  hair,  his  sweet,  rapt  expression  of  an  in- 
ner glory,  out  tbere  among  the  world  of  swaying  trees  he 
loved  so  well.  And  then  my  first  soft  view  of  the  man 
would  come  back  to  me  when  I  had  seen  him  in  the  dusk  as 
a  tree;  as  though  by  some  queer  optical  freak  my  outer  and 
my  inner  vision  had  mingled  so  that  I  perceived  both  his 
broken  body  and  his  soul  of  magic. 

For  the  mysterious  singing  of  the  leaf,  heard  in  such  mo- 
ments from  my  window  while  the  world  slept,  expressed  ab- 
solutely the  inmost  cry  of  that  lonely  and  singular  spirit, 
damaged  in  the  eyes  of  the  village  beyond  repair,  but  in  the 
sight  of  the  wood-gods  he  so  devoutly  worshipped,  made 
whole  with  their  own  peculiar  loveliness  and  fashioned  after 
the  image  of  elemental  things. 

The  spring  wonder  was  melting  into  the  peace  of  the 
long  summer  days  when  the  end  came.  The  vineyards  had 
begun  to  dress  themselves  in  green,  and  the  forest  in  those 
soft  blues  when  individual  trees  lose  their  outline  in  the 
general  body  of  the  mountain.  The  lake  was  indistinguish- 
able from  the  sky ;  the  Jura  peaks  and  ridges  gone  a-soaring 
into  misty  distances;  the  white  Alps  withdrawn  into  inac- 
cessible and  remote  solitudes  of  heaven.  I  was  making  re- 


192   THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

luctant  preparations  for  leaving — dark  London  already  in 
my  thoughts — when  the  news  came.  I  forget  who  first  put 
it  into  actual  words.  It  had  been  about  the  village  all  the 
morning,  and  something  of  it  was  in  every  face  as  I  went 
down  the  street.  But  the  moment  I  came  out  and  saw  the 
dog  on  my  doorstep,  looking  up  at  me  with  puzzled  and 
beseeching  eyes,  I  knew  that  something  untoward  had 
happened;  and  when  he  bit  at  my  boots  and  caught  my 
trousers  in  his  teeth,  pulling  me  in  the  direction  of  the 
forest,  a  sudden  sense  of  poignant  bereavement  shot  through 
my  heart  that  I  found  it  hard  to  explain,  and  that  must 
seem  incredible  to  those  who  have  never  known  how  potent 
may  be  the  conviction  of  a  sudden  intuition. 

I  followed  the  forlorn  creature  whither  it  led,  but  before  a 
hundred  yards  lay  behind  us  I  had  learned  the  facts  from 
half-a-dozen  mouths.  That  morning,  very  early,  before  the 
countryside  was  awake,  the  first  mountain  train,  swiftly  de- 
scending the  steep  incline  below  Chambrelien,  had  caught 
Ferret  "Comment-va"  just  where  the  Mont  Racine  sentier 
crosses  the  line  on  the  way  to  his  best-beloved  woods,  and 
in  one  swift  second  had  swept  him  into  eternity.  The  spot 
was  in  the  direct  line  he  always  took  to  that  special  wood- 
land shrine — his  Holy  Place. 

And  the  manner  of  his  death  was  characteristic  of  what  I 
had  divined  in  the  man  from  the  beginning;  for  he  had 
given  up  his  life  to  save  his  dog — this  mongrel  and  faithful 
creature  that  now  tugged  so  piteously  at  my  trousers.  De- 
tails, too,  were  not  lacking;  the  engine-driver  had  not  failed 
to  tell  the  story  at  the  next  station,  and  the  news  had 
travelled  up  the  mountain-side  in  the  way  that  all  such 
news  travels — swiftly.  Moreover,  the  woman  who  lived  at 
the  hut  beside  the  crossing,  and  lowered  the  wooden  bar- 
riers at  the  approach  of  all  trains,  had  witnessed  the  whole 
sad  scene  from  the  beginning. 

And  it  is  soon  told.  Neither  she  nor  the  engine-driver 
knew  exactly  how  the  dog  got  caught  in  the  rails,  but  both 
saw  that  it  was  caught,  and  both  saw  plainly  how  the 
figure  of  the  half-witted  wanderer,  hatless  as  usual  and  with 
cape  flying,  moved  deliberately  across  the  line  to  release  il 


THE  MAN  IV HO  PLAYED  UPON  THE  LEAF     193 

It  all  happened  in  a  moment.  The  man  could  only  have 
saved  himself  by  leaving  the  dog  to  its  fate.  The  shrieking 
whistle  had  as  little  effect  upon  him  as  the  powerful  brakes 
had  upon  the  engine  in  those  few  available  moments.  Yet, 
in  the  fraction  of  a  second  before  the  engine  caught  them, 
the  dog  somehow  leapt  free,  and  the  soul  of  the  Man  Who 
Played  upon  the  Leaf  passed  into  the  presence  of  his  God 
— singing. 

As  soon  as  it  realised  that  I  followed  willingly,  the  beastie 
left  me  and  trotted  on  ahead,  turning  every  few  minutes  to 
make  sure  that  I  was  coming.  But  I  guessed  our  destination 
without  difficulty.  We  passed  the  Pontarlier  railway  first, 
then  climbed  for  half-an-hour  and  crossed  the  moun- 
tain line  about  a  mile  above  the  scene  of  the  disaster, 
and  so  eventually  entered  the  region  of  the  forest,  still 
quivering  with  innumerable  flowers,  where  in  the  shaded 
heart  of  trees  we  approached  the  spot  of  lilies  that  I  knew — 
the  place  where  a  few  weeks  before  the  devout  worshipper 
had  lifted  the  hat  from  my  head  because  the  earth  whereon 
I  stood  was  holy  ground.  We  stood  in  the  pillared  gateway 
of  his  Holy  of  Holies.  The  cool  airs,  perfumed  beyond  be- 
lief, stole  out  of  the  forest  to  meet  us  on  the  very  threshold, 
for  the  trees  here  grew  so  thickly  that  only  patches  of  the 
summer  blaze  found  an  entrance.  And  this  time  I  did  not 
wait  on  the  outskirts,  but  followed  my  four-footed  guide  to  a 
group  of  mossy  boulders  that  stood  in  the  very  centre  of  the 
hollow. 

And  there,  as  the  dog  raised  its  eyes  to  mine,  soft  with 
the  pain  of  its  great  unanswerable  question,  I  saw  in  a 
cleft  of  the  grey  rock  the  ashes  of  many  hundred  fires; 
and,  placed  about  them  in  careful  array,  an  assortment  of 
the  sacrifices  he  had  offered,  doubtless  in  sharp  personal 
deprivation,  to  his  deity: — bits  of  mouldy  bread,  half-loaves, 
untouched  portions  of  cheese,  salami  with  the  skin  uncut — 
most  ef  i*  exactly  as  I  had  left  it  in  his  hut;  and  last  of 
all,  wrapped  in  the  original  white  paper,  the  piece  of  Colom- 
bier  plume-cak',  and  a  row  of  ten  silver  francs  round  the 
edge.  .  .  . 

I  learned  afterwards,  too,  that  among  the  almost  un- 


194  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

recognisable  remains  on  the  railway,  untouched  by  the  de- 
vouring terror  of  the  iron,  they  had  found  a  hand — tightly 
clasping  in  its  dead  fingers  a  crumpled  ivy  leaf.  .  .  . 

My  efforts  to  find  a  home  for  the  dog  delayed  my  depart- 
ture,  I  remember,  several  days;  but  in  the  autumn  when  I 
returned  it  was  only  to  hear  that  the  creature  had  refused  to 
stay  with  any  one,  and  finally  had  escaped  into  the  forest 
and  deliberately  starved  itself  to  death.  They  found  its 
skeleton,  Louis  Favre  told  me,  in  a  rocky  hollow  on  the 
lower  slopes  of  Mont  Racine  in  the  direction  of  Montmollin. 
But  Louis  Favre  did  not  know,  as  I  knew,  that  this  hollow 
had  received  other  sacrifices  as  well,  and  was  consecrated 
ground. 

And  somewhere,  if  you  search  well  the  Jura  slopes  be- 
tween Champ  du  Moulin,  where  Jean- Jacques  Rousseau  had 
his  temporary  house,  and  Cotendard,  where  he  visited  Lord 
Wemyss  when  "Milord  Marechal  Keith"  was  Governor  of 
the  Principality  of  Neuchatel  under  Frederic  II,  King  of 
Prussia — if  you  look  well  these  haunted  slopes,  somewhere 
between  the  vineyards  and  the  gleaming  limestone  heights, 
you  shall  find  the  forest  glade  where  lie  the  bleached  bones 
of  the  mongrel  dog,  and  the  little  village  cemetery  that 
holds  the  remains  of  the  Man  Who  Played  upon  the  Leaf 
to  the  honour  of  the  Great  God  Pan. 


AN  OLD  THORN 

BY  W.  H.  HUDSON 

THE  little  village  of  Ingden  lies  in  a  hollow  of  the  South 
Wiltshire  Downs,  the  most  isolated  of  the  villages  in 
that  lonely  district.  Its  one  short  street  is  crossed  at 
right  angles  in  the  middle  part  by  the  Salisbury  road,  and 
standing  just  at  that  point,  the  church  on  one  hand,  the  old 
inn  on  the  other,  you  can  follow  it  with  the  eye  for  a  dis- 
tance of  nearly  three  miles.  First  it  goes  winding  up  the 
low  down  under  which  the  village  stands,  then  vanishes  over 
the  brow  to  reappear  again  a  mile  and  a  half  further  away 
as  a  white  band  on  the  vast  green  slope  of  the  succeeding 
down,  which  rises  to  a  height  of  over  600  feet.  On  the 
summit  it  vanishes  once  more,  but  those  who  use  it  know  it 
for  a  laborious  road  crossing  several  high  ridges  before 
dropping  down  into  the  valley  road  leading  to  Salisbury. 

When,  standing  in  the  village  street,  your  eye  travels  up 
that  white  band,  you  can  distinctly  make  out  even  at  that 
distance  a  small  solitary  tree  standing  near  the  summit — 
an  old  thorn  with  an  ivy  growing  on  it.  My  walks  were 
often  that  way,  and  invariably  on  coming  to  that  point  I 
would  turn  twenty  yards  aside  from  the  road  to  spend  half 
an  hour  seated  on  the  turf  near  or  under  the  old  tree.  These 
half-hours  were  always  grateful;  and  conscious  that  the 
tree  drew  me  to  it  I  questioned  myself  as  to  the  reason. 
It  was,  I  told  myself,  nothing  but  mental  curiosity — my  in- 
terest was  a  purely  scientific  one.  For  how  comes  it,  I  asked, 
that  a  thorn  can  grow  to  a  tree  and  live  to  a  great  age  in 
such  a  situation,  on  a  vast  naked  down,  where  for  many 
centuries,  perhaps  for  thousands  of  years,  the  herbage  has 
been  so  closely  fed  by  sheep  as  to  have  the  appearance  of  a 
carpet  or  newly  mown  lawn?  The  seed  is  carried  and  scat- 

J95 


196  TEE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

tered  everywhere  by  the  birds,  but  no  sooner  does  it  germi- 
nate and  send  up  a  shoot  than  it  is  eaten  down  to  the  roots ; 
forrthere  is  no  scent  that  attracts  a  sheep  more,  no  flavour 
it  has  greater  taste  for,  than  that  of  any  forest  seedling 
springing  up  amidst  the  minute  herbaceous  plants  which  car- 
pet the  downs.  The  thorn,  like  other  organisms,  has  its 
own  unconscious  intelligence  and  cunning  by  means  of 
which  it  endeavours  to  save  itself  and  fulfil  its  life.  It  opens 
its  first  tender  leaves  under  the  herbage  and  at  the  same 
time  thrusts  up  a  vertical  spine  to  wound  the  nibbling 
mouth;  and  no  sooner  has  it  got  a  leaf  or  two  and  a  spine 
than  it  spreads  its  roots  all  round  and  from  each  of  them 
springs  a  fresh  shoot,  leaves  and  protecting  spine,  to  in- 
crease the  chance  of  preservation.  In  vain!  the  cunning  ani- 
mal finds  a  way  to  defeat  all  this  strategy,  and  after  the 
leaves  have  been  bitten  off  again  and  again,  the  infant  plant 
gives  up  the  struggle  and  dies  in  the  ground.  Yet  we  see 
that  from  time  to  time  one  survives — one  perhaps  in  a  mil- 
lion; but  how — whether  by  a  quicker  growth  or  a  harder  or 
more  poisonous  thorn,  an  unpalatable  leaf,  or  some  secret 
agency — we  cannot  guess.  First,  as  a  diminutive,  scrubby 
shrub,  with  numerous  iron-hard  stems,  with  few  and  small 
leaves  but  many  thorns,  it  keeps  its  poor  flower  less  frus- 
trate life  for  perhaps  half  a  century  or  longer,  without  grow- 
ing more  than  a  couple  of  feet  high;  and  then,  as  by  a 
miracle,  it  will  spring  up  until  its  top  shoots  out  of  reach 
of  the  browsing  sheep,  and  in  the  end  it  becomes  a  tree 
with  spreading  branches  and  fully  developed  leaves,  and 
flowers  and  fruit  in  its  season. 

One  day  I  was  visited  by  an  artist  from  a  distance  who, 
when  shown  the  thorn,  pronounced  it  a  fine  subject  for  his 
pencil,  and  while  he  made  his  picture  we  talked  about  the 
hawthorn  generally  as  compared  with  other  trees,  and 
agreed  that,  except  in  its  blossoming  time  when  it  is  merely 
pretty,  it  is  the  most  engaging  and  perhaps  the  most  beau- 
tiful of  our  native  trees.  We  said  that  it  was  the  most 
individual  of  trees,  that  its  variety  was  infinite,  for  you 
never  find  two  alike  whether  growing  in  a  forest,  in  groups 
or  masses,  or  alone.  We  were  almost  lyrical  in  its  praises. 


AN  OLD  THORN  197 

But  the  solitary  thorn  was  always  best,  he  said,  and  this 
one  was  perhaps  the  best  of  all  he  had  seen;  strange  and 
at  the  same  time  decorative  in  its  form,  beautiful  too  in  its 
appearance  of  great  age  with  unimpaired  vigour  and  some- 
thing more  in  its  expression — that  elusive  something  whicti 
we  find  in  some  trees  and  don't  know  how  to  explain. 

Ah,  yes,  thought  I,  it  was  this  appeal  to  the  aesthetic 
faculty  which  attracted  me  from  the  first,  and  not,  as  I 
had  imagined,  the  mere  curiosity  of  the  naturalist  inter- 
ested mainly  and  always  in  the  habits  of  living  things, 
plant  or  animal. 

Certainly  the  thorn  had  strangeness.  Its  appearance  as 
to  height  was  deceptive;  one  would  have  guessed  it  eighteen 
feet;  measuring  it  I  was  surprised  to  find  it  only  ten.  It 
has  four  separate  boles,  springing  from  one  root,  leaning 
a  little  away  from  each  other,  the  thickest  just  a  foot  in 
circumference.  The  branches  are  few,  beginning  at  about 
five  feet  from  the  ground,  the  foliage  thin,  the  leaves 
throughout  the  summer  stained  with  grey,  rust-red,  and 
purple  colour.  Though  so  small  and  exposed  to  the  full  fury 
of  every  wind  that  blows  over  that  vast  naked  down,  it  has 
yet  an  ivy  growing  on  it — the  strangest  of  the  many  strange 
ivy-plants  I  have  seen.  It  comes  out  of  the  ground  as  two 
ivy  trunks  on  opposite  sides  of  the  stoutest  bole,  but  at  a 
height  of  four  feet  from  the  surface  the  two  join  and  ascend 
the  tree  as  one  round  iron-coloured  and  iron-hard  stem, 
which  goes  curving  and  winding  snakewise  among  the 
branches  as  if  with  the  object  of  roping  them  to  save  them 
from  being  torn  off  by  the  winds.  Finally,  rising  to  the  top, 
the  long  serpent-stem  opens  out  in  a  flat  disc-shaped  mass  of 
close-packed  branchlets  and  twigs  densely  set  with  small 
round  leaves,  dark  dull  green  and  tough  as  parchment. 
One  could  only  suppose  that  thorn  and  ivy  had  been  part- 
ners from  the  beginning  of  life,  and  that  the  union  was 
equally  advantageous  to  both. 

The  small  ivy  disc  or  platform  on  top  of  the  tree  was 
a  favourite  stnrd  and  look-out  for  the  downland  birds.  I 
seldom  visited  the  spot  without  disturbing  some  of  them, 
now  a  little  company  of  missel-thrushes,  now  a  crowd  of 


198  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

starlings,  then  perhaps  a  dozen  rooks,  crowded  together, 
looking  very  big  and  conspicuous  on  their  little  platform. 

Being  curious  to  find  out  something  about  the  age  of 
the  tree  I  determined  to  put  the  question  to  my  old  friend 
Malachi,  aged  eighty-nine,  who  was  born  and  had  always 
lived  in  the  parish  and  had  known  the  clowns  and  prob- 
ably every  tree  growing  on  them  for  miles  around  from 
his  earliest  years.  It  was  my  custom  to  drop  in  of  an 
evening  and  sit  with  him,  listening  to  his  endless  reminis- 
cences of  his  young  days.  That  evening  I  spoke  of  the 
thorn,  describing  its  position  and  appearance,  thinking  that 
perhaps  he  had  forgotten  it.  How  long,  I  asked  him,  had 
the  thorn  been  there? 

He  was  one  of  those  men,  usually  of  the  labouring  class, 
to  be  met  with  in  such  lonely,  out-of-the-world  places  as 
the  Wiltshire  Downs,  whose  eyes  never  look  old  however 
many  their  years  may  be,  and  are  more  like  the  eyes  of  a 
bird  or  animal  than  a  human  being,  for  they  gaze  at  you 
and  through  you  when  you  speak  without  appearing  to 
know  what  you  say.  So  it  was  on  this  occasion ;  he  looked 
straight  at  me  with  no  sign  of  understanding,  no  change 
in  his  clear  grey  eyes,  and  answered  nothing.  But  I 
would  not  be  put  off,  and  when,  raising  my  voice,  I  re- 
peated the  question,  he  replied  after  another  interval  of 
silence  that  the  thorn  "was  never  any  different."  'Twas 
just  the  same,  ivy  and  all,  when  he  were  a  small  boy.  It 
just  looked  old:  why,  he  remembered  his  old  father  saying 
the  same  thing — 'twas  the  same  when  he  were  a  boy,  and 
'twas  the  same  in  his  father's  time.  Then  anxious  to  es- 
cape from  the  subject  he  began  talking  of  something  else. 

It  struck  me  that  after  all  the  most  interesting  thing 
about  the  thorn  was  it  appearance  of  great  age,  and  this 
aspect  I  had  now  been  told  had  continued  for  at  least  a 
century,  probably  for  a  much  longer  time.  It  produced 
a  reverent  feeling  in  me  such  as  we  experience  at  the  sight 
of  some  ancient  stone  monument.  But  the  tree  was  alive, 
and  because  of  its  life  the  feeling  was  perhaps  stronger 
than  in  the  case  of  a  granite  cross  or  cromlech  or  other 
memorial  of  antiquity. 


AN  OLD  THORN  199 

Sitting  by  the  thorn  one  day  it  occurred  to  me  that, 
growing  at  this  spot  close  to  the  road  and  near  the  summit 
of  that  vast  down,  numberless  persons  travelling  to  and 
from  Salisbury  must  have  turned  aside  to  rest  on  the  turf 
in  the  shade  after  that  laborious  ascent  or  before  begin- 
ning the  long  descent  to  the  valley  below.  Travellers  of 
all  conditions,  on  foot  or  horseback,  in  carts  and  carriages, 
merchants,  bagmen,  farmers,  drovers,  gipsies,  tramps  and 
vagrants  of  all  descriptions,  and  from  time  to  time  troops 
of  soldiers.  Yet  never  one  of  them  had  injured  the  tree 
in  any  way!  I  could  not  remember  ever  finding  a  tree 
growing  alcne  by  the  roadside  in  a  lonely  place  which  had 
not  the  marks  of  many  old  and  new  wounds  inflicted  on  its 
trunk  with  knives,  hatchets,  and  other  implements.  Here 
not  a  mark,  not  a  scratch  had  been  made  on  any  one  of 
its  four  trunks  or  on  the  ivy  stem  by  any  thoughtless  or 
mischievous  person,  nor  had!  any  branch  been  cut  or 
broken  off.  Why  had  they  one  and  all  respected  this  tree? 

It  was  another  subject  to  talk  to  Malachi  about,  and  to 
him  I  went  after  tea  and  found  him  with  three  of  his  neigh- 
bours sitting  by  the  fire  and  talking;  for  though  it  was 
summer  the  old  man  always  had  a  fire  in  the  evening. 

They  welcomed  and  made  room  for  me,  but  I  had  no 
sooner  broached  the  subject  in  my  mind  than  they  all  fell 
into  silence,  then  after  a  brief  interval  the  three  callers 
began  to  discuss  some  little  village  matter.  I  was  not  going 
to  be  put  off  in  that  way,  and  leaving  them  out,  went  on 
talking  to  Malachi  about  the  tree.  Presently  one  by  one  the 
visitors  got  up  and,  remarking  that  it  was  time  to  be  going, 
they  took  their  departure. 

The  old  man  could  not  escape  nor  avoid  listening,  and 
in  the  end  had  to  say  something.  He  said  he  didn't  know 
nothing  about  all  them  tramps  and  gipsies  and  other  sorts 
of  men  who  had  sat  by  the  tree;  all  he  knowed  was  that 
the  old  thorn  had  been  a  good  thorn  to  him — first  srd 
last.  He  remembered  once  when  he  was  a  young  man.  not 
yet  twenty,  he  went  to  do  some  work  at  a  village  five  miles 
away,  and  being  winter  time  he  left  early,  about  four  o'clock, 
to  walk  home  over  the  downs.  He  had  just  got  married 


200  THE  GREAT  MODERN,  ENGLISH  STORIES 

and  had  promised  his  wife  to  be  home  for  tea  at  six 
o'clock.  But  a  thick  fog  came  up  over  the  downs  and 
soon  as  it  got  dark  he  lost  himself.  'Twas  the  darkest, 
thickest  night  he  had  ever  been  out  in;  and  whenever  he 
came  against  a  bank  or  other  obstruction  he  would  get 
down  on  his  hands  and  knees  and  feel  it  up  and  down  to 
get  its  shape  and  find  out  what  it  was,  for  he  knew  all 
the  marks  on  his  native  downs;  'twas  all  in  vain — noth- 
ing could  he  recognise.  In  this  way  he  wandered  about 
for  hours  and  was  in  despair  of  getting  home  that  night 
when  all  at  once  there  came  a  sense  of  relief,  a  feeling  that 
it  was  all  right,  that  something  was  guiding  him. 

I  remarked  that  I  knew  what  that  meant:  he  had  lost 
his  sense  of  direction  and  had  now  all  at  once  recovered 
it;  such  a  thing  had  often  happened;  I  once  had  such  an 
experience  myself. 

No,  it  was  not  that,  he  returned.  He  had  not  gone  a 
dozen  steps  from  the  moment  that  sense  of  confidence 
came  to  him,  before  he  ran  into  a  tree,  and  feeling  the 
trunk  with  his  hands  he  recognised  it  as  the  old  thorn 
and  knew  where  he  was.  In  a  couple  of  minutes  he  was 
on  the  road,  and  in  less  than  an  hour,  just  about  midnight, 
he  was  safe  at  home. 

No  more  could  I  get  out  of  him,  at  all  events  on  that  oc- 
casion; nor  did  I  ever  succeed  in  extracting  any  further" 
personal  experience  in  spite  of  his  having  let  out  that  the 
thorn  had  been  a  good  thorn  to  him,  first  and  last.  I  had, 
however,  heard  enough  to  satisfy  me  that  I  had  at  length 
discovered  the  real  secret  of  the  tree's  fascination.  I  re- 
called other  trees  which  had  similarly  affected  me,  and  how, 
long  years  ago,  when  a  good  deal  of  my  time  was  spent  on 
horseback,  whenever  I  found  myself  in  a  certain  district 
I  would  go  miles  out  of  my  way  just  to  look  at  a  solitary 
old  tree  growing  in  a  lonely  place,  and  to  sit  for  an  hour 
to  refresh  myself,  body  and  soul,  in  its  shade.  I  had,  in- 
deed, all  along  suspected  the  thorn  of  being  one  of  this 
order  of  mysterious  trees;  and  from  other  experiences  I 
had  met  with,  one  some  years  ago  in  a  village  in  this  same 
county  of  Wilts,  I  had  formed  the  opinion  that  in  many 


AN  OLD  THORN  201 

persons  the  sense  of  a  strange  intelligence  and  possibly 
of  power  in  such  trees  is  not  a  mere  transitory  mental  state 
but  an  enduring  influence  which  profoundly  affects  their 
whole  lives. 

Determined  to  find  out  something  more,  I  went  to 
other  villagers,  mostly  women,  who  are  more  easily  dis- 
armed and  made  to  believe  that  you  too  know  and  are  of 
the  same  mind  with  them,  being  under  the  same  mysterious 
power  and  spell.  In  this  way,  laying  many  a  subtle  snare, 
I  succeeded  in  eliciting  a  good  deal  of  information.  It 
was,  however,  mostly  of  a  kind  which  could  not  profitably 
be  used  in  any  inquiry  into  the  subject;  it  simply  went  to 
show  that  the  feeling  existed  and  was  strong  in  many  of 
the  villagers.  During  this  inquiry  I  picked  up  several 
anecdotes  about  a  person  who  lived  in  Ingden  close  upon 
three  generations  ago,  and  was  able  to  piece  them  to- 
gether so  as  to  make  a  consistent  narrative  of  his  life.  This 
was  Johnnie  Budd,  a  farm  labourer,  who  came  to  his  end 
in  1821,  a  year  or  so  before  my  old  friend  Malachi  was 
born.  It  is  going  very  far  back,  but  there  were  circum- 
stances in  his  life  which  made  a  deep  impression  on  the 
mind  of  that  little  community  and  the  story  had  lived  on 
through  all  these  years. 

Johnnie  had  fallen  on  hard  times  when  in  an  exception- 
ally severe  winter  season  he  with  others  had  been  thrown 
out  of  employment  at  the  farm  where  he  worked;  then 
with  a  wife  and  three  small  children  to  keep  he  had  in  his 
desperation  procured  food 'for  them  one  dark  night  in  an 
adjacent  field.  But  alas!  one  of  the  little  ones,  playing 
in  the  road  with  some  of  her  companions,  who  were  all 
very  hungry,  let  it  out  that  she  wasn't  hungry,  that  for 
three  days  she  had  had  as  much  nice  meat  as  she  wanted 
to  eat!  Play  over,  the  hungry  little  ones  flew  home  to 
tell  their  parents  the  wonderful  news — why  didn't  they 
have  nice  meat  like  Tilly  Budd,  instead  of  a  piece  of  rye 
bread  without  even  dripping  on  it,  when  they  were  so 
hungry?  Much  talk  followed,  and  spread  from  cottage  to 
cottage  until  it  reached  the  constable's  ears,  and  he,  already 
informed  of  the  loss  of  a  wether  taken  from  its  fold  close 


202   THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

by,  went  straight  to  Johnnie  and  charged  him  with  the 
offence.  Johnnie  lost  his  head,  and  dropping  on  his  knees 
confessed  his  guilt  and  begged  his  old  friend  Lampard  to' 
have  mercy  on  him  and  to  overlook  it  for  the  sake  of  his 
wife  and  children. 

It  was  his  first  offence,  but  when  he  was  taken  from  the 
lock-up  at  the  top  of  the  village  street  to  be  conveyed  to 
Salisbury,  his  friends  and  neighbours  who  had  gathered  at 
the  spot  to  witness  his  removal  shook  their  heads  and 
doubted  that  Ingden  would  ever  see  him  again.  The  con- 
fession had  made  the  case  so  simple  a  one  that  he  had 
at  once  been  committed  to  take  his  trial  at  Salisbury  As- 
sizes, and  as  the  time  was  near  the  constable  had  been  or- 
dered to  convey  the  prisoner  to  the  town  himself.  Ac- 
cordingly he  engaged  old  Joe  Blaskett,  called  Daddy  in  the 
village,  to  take  them  in  his  pony  cart.  Daddy  did  not 
want  .the  job,  but  was  talked  or  bullied  into  it,  and  there 
he  now  sat  in  his  cart,  waiting  in  glum  silence  for  his 
passengers;  a  bent  old  man  of  eighty,  with  a  lean,  grey, 
bitter  face,  in  his  rusty  cloak,  his  old  rabbit-skin  cap 
drawn  down  over  his  ears,  his  white  disorderly  beard  scat- 
tered over  his  chest.  The  constable  Lampard  was  a  big, 
powerful  man,  with  a  great  round,  good-natured  face,  but 
just  now  he  had  a  strong  sense  of  his  responsibility,  and 
to  make  sure  of  not  losing  his  prisoner  he  handcuffed  him 
before  bringing  him  out  and  helping  him  to  take  his  seat 
on  the  bottom  of  the  cart.  Then  he  got  up  himself  to 
his  seat  by  the  driver's  side;  the  last  good-bye  was  spoken, 
the  weeping  wife  being  gently  led  away  by  her  friends,  and 
the  cart  rattled  away  down  the  street.  Turning  into  the  Salis- 
bury road  it  was  soon  out  of  sight  over  the  near  down, 
but  half  an  hour  later  it  emerged  once  more  into  sight  be- 
yond the  great  dip,  and  the  villagers  who  had  remained 
standing  about  at  the  same  spot  watched  it  crawling  like 
a  beetle  up  the  long  white  road  on  the  slope  of  the  vast 
down  beyond. 

Johnnie  was  now  lying  coiled  up  on  his  rug,  his  face 
hidden  between  his  arms,  abandoned  to  his  grief,  sobbing 
aloud.  Lampard,  sitting  athwart  the  seat  so  as  to  keep  an 


AN  OLD  THORN  203 

eye  on  him,  burst  out  at  last:  "Be  a  man,  Johnnie,  and 
stop  your  crying!  'Tis  making  things  no  better  by  taking 
on  like  that.  What  do  you  say,  Daddy?" 

"I  say  nought,"  snapped  the  old  man,  and  for  a  while 
they  proceeded  in  silence  except  for  those  heartrending  sobs. 
As  they  approached  the  old  thorn  tree,  near  the  top  of  the 
long  slope,  Johnnie  grew  more  and  more  agitated,  his  whole 
frame  shaking  with  his  sobbing.  Again  the  constable  re- 
buked him,  telling  him  that  'twas  a  shame  for  a  man  to 
go  on  like  that.  Then  with  an  effort  he  restrained  his 
sobs,  and  lifting  a  red,  swollen,  tear-stained  face  he  stam- 
mered out:  "Master  Lampard,  did  I  ever  ask  'ee  a  favour 
in  my  life?" 

"What  be  after  now?"  said  the  other  suspiciously.  "Well, 
no,  Johnnie,  not  as  I  remember." 

"An'  do  'ee  think  I'll  ever  come  back  home  again,  Master 
Lampard?" 

"Maybe  no,  maybe  yes;  'tis  not  for  me  to  say." 

"But  'ee  knows  'tis  a  hanging  matter?" 

"  'Tis  that  for  sure.  But  you  be  a  young  man  with  a 
wife  and  childer,  and  have  never  done  no  wrong  before — 
not  that  I  ever  heard  say.  Maybe  the  judge'll  recommend 
you  to  mercy.  What  do  you  say,  Daddy?" 

The  old  man  only  made  some  inarticulate  sounds  in 
his  beard,  without  turning  his  head. 

"But,  Master  Lampard,  suppose  I  don't  swing,  they'll 
send  I  over  the  water  and  I'll  never  see  the  wife  and  chil- 
dren no  more." 

"Maybe  so;  I'm  thinking  that's  how  'twill  be." 

"Then  will  'ee  do  me  a  kindness?  'Tis  the  only  one  I 
ever  asked  'ee,  and  there'll  be  no  chance  to  ask  'ee  an- 
other." 

"I  can't  say,  Johnnie,  not  till  I  know  what  'tis  you 
want." 

"  'Tis  only  this,  Master  Lampard.  When  we  git  to  th* 
old  thorn  let  me  out  o'  the  cart  and  let  me  stand  under  it 
one  minnit  and  no  more." 

"Be  you  wanting  to  hang  yourself  before  the  trial,  then?" 
said  the  constable,  trying  to  make  a  joke  of  it. 


204  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

"I  couldn't  do  that,"  said  Johnnie,  simply,  "seeing  my 
hands  be  fast  and  you'd  be  standing  by." 

"No,  no,  Johnnie,  'tis  nought  but  just  foolishness.  What 
do  you  say,  Daddy?" 

The  old  man  turned  round  with  a  look  of  sudden  rage  in 
his  grey  face  which  startled  Lampard:  but  he  said  nothing, 
he  only  opened  and  shut  his  mouth  two  or  three  times  with- 
out a  sound. 

Meanwhile  the  pony  had  been  going  slower  and  slower 
for  the  last  thirty  or  forty  yards,  and  now  when  they 
were  abreast  of  the  tree,  stood  still. 

"What  be  stopping  for?"  cried  Lampard.  "Get  on — 
get  on,  or  we'll  never  get  to  Salisbury  this  day." 

Then  at  length  old  Blaskett  found  a  voice. 

"Does  thee  know  what  thee's  saying,  Master  Lampard, 
or  be  thee  a  stranger  in  this  parish?" 

"What  d'ye  mean,  Daddy?  I  be  no  stranger;  I've 
a-known  this  parish  and  known  'ee  these  nine  years." 

"Thee  asked  why  I  stopped  when  'twas  the  pony  stopped, 
knowing  where  we'd  got  to.  But  thee's  not  born  here 
or  thee'd  a-known  what  a  boss  knows.  An'  since  'ee  asks 
what  I  says,  I  say  this,  'twill  not  hurt  'ee  to  let  Johnnie 
Budd  stand  one  minute  by  the  tree." 

Feeling  insulted  and  puzzled  the  constable  was  about  to 
assert  his  authority  when  he  was  arrested  by  Johnnie's 
cry,  "Oh,  Master  Lampard,  'tis  my  last  hope!"  and  by 
the  sight  of  the  agony  of  suspense  on  his  swollen  face.  Af- 
ter a  short  hesitation  he  swung  himself  out  over  the  side 
of  the  cart,  and  letting  down  the  tailboard  laid  rough  hands 
on  Johnnie  and  half  helped,  half  dragged  him  out. 

They  were  quickly  by  the  tree,  where  Johnnie  stood  si- 
lent with  downcast  eyes  a  few  moments;  then  dropping 
upon  his  knees  leant  his  face  against  the  bark,  his  eyes 
closed,  his  lips  murmuring. 

"Time's  up!"  cried  Lampard  presently,  and  taking  him 
by  the  collar  pulled  him  to  his  feet;  in  a  couple  of  min- 
utes more  they  were  in  the  cart  and  on  their  way. 

It  was  grey  weather,  very  cold,  with  an  east  wind  blow- 
ing, but  for  the  rest  of  that  dreary  seventeen-miles  journey 


AN  OLD  THORN  205 

Johnnie  was  very  quiet  and  submissive  and  shed  no  more 
tears. 

What  had  been  his  motive  in  wishing  to  stand  by  the 
tree?  What  did  he  expect  when  he  said  that  it  was  his 
last  hope?  During  the  way  up  the  long  laborious  slope 
an  incident  of  his  early  years  in  connection  with  the  tree 
had  been  in  his  mind,  and  had  wrought  tm  him  until  it 
culminated  in  that  passionate  outburst  and  his  strange 
request.  It  was  when  he  was  a  boy  not  quite  ten  years 
old,  that  one  afternoon  in  the  summer-time  he  went  with 
other  children  to  look  for  wild  raspberries  on  the  summit 
of  the  great  down.  Johnnie  being  the  eldest  was  the  leader 
of  the  little  band.  On  the  way  back  from  the  brambly 
place  where  the  fruit  grew,  on  approaching  the  thorn  they 
spied  a  number  of  rooks  sitting  on  it,  and  it  came  into 
Johnnie's  mind  that  it  would  be  great  fun  to  play  at 
crows  by  sitting  on  the  branches  as  near  the  top  as  they 
could  get.  Running  on,  with  cries  that  sent  the  rooks 
cawing  away,  they  began  swarming  up  the  trunks,  but  in 
the  midst  of  their  frolic,  when  they  were  all  struggling  for 
the  best  places  on  the  branches,  they  were  startled  by 
a  shout,  and  looking  up  to  the  top  of  the  down  saw  a 
man  on  horseback  coming  towards  them  at  a  gallop,  shak- 
ing a  whip  in  anger  as  he  rode.  Instantly  they  began 
scrambling  down,  falling  over  each  other  in  their  haste, 
then,  picking  themselves  up,  set  off  down  the  slope  as  fast 
as  they  could  run.  Johnnie  was  foremost,  while  close  be- 
hind him  came  Marty,  who  was  nearly  the  same  age  and 
though  a  girl  almost  as  swift-footed,  but  before  going  fifty 
yards  she  struck  her  foot  against  an  ant-hill  and  was 
thrown  violently,  face  down,  on  the  turf.  Johnnie  turned 
at  her  cry  and  flew  back  to  help  her  up,  but  the  shock 
of  the  fall  and  her  extreme  terror  had  deprived  her  for 
the  moment  of  all  strength,  and  while  he  struggled  to 
raise  her  the  smaller  children  one  by  one  overtook  and 
passed  them,  and  in  another  moment  the  man  was  off  his 
horse,  standing  over  them.  "Do  you  want  a  good  thrash- 
ing?" he  said,  grasping  Johnnie  by  the  collar. 

"Oh,  sir,  please  don't  hit  me!"  answered  Johnnie;  then 


206  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

looking  up  he  was  astonished  to  see  that  his  captor  was 
not  the  stern  old  farmer,  the  tenant  of  the  down,  he  had 
taken  him  for,  but  a  stranger  and  a  strange-looking  man, 
in  a  dark  grey  cloak  with  a  red  collar;  he  had  a  pointed 
beard  and  long  black  hair  and  dark  eyes  that  were  not 
evil  yet  frightened  Johnnie  when  he  caught  them  gazing 
down  on  him. 

"No,  I'll  not  thrash  you,"  said  he,  "because  you  stayed 
to  help  the  little  maiden,  but  I'll  tell  you  something  for 
your  good  about  the  tree  you  and  your  little  mates  have 
been  climbing,  bruising  the  bark  with  your  heels  and  break- 
ing off  leaves  and  twigs.  Do  you  know,  boy,  that  if  you 
hurt  it,  it  will  hurt  you?  It  stands  here  with  its  roots  in 
the  ground  and  you — you  can  go  away  from  it,  you  think. 
'Tis  not  so;  something  will  come  out  of  it  and  follow  you 
wherever  you  go  and  hurt  and  break  you  at  last.  But  if 
you  make  it  a  friend  and  care  for  it  it  will  care  for  you 
and  give  you  happiness  and  deliver  you  from  evil." 

Then  touching  Johnnie's  cheeks  with  his  gloved  hand  he 
got  on  his  horse  and  rode  away,  and  no  sooner  was  he 
gone  than  Marty  started  up,  and  hand  in  hand  the  two 
children  set  off  at  a  run  down  the  long  slope. 

Johnnie's  playtime  was  nearly  over  then,  for  by-an-by 
he  was  taken  as  farmer's  boy  at  one  of  the  village  farms. 
When  he  was  nineteen  years  old,  one  Sunday  evening  when 
standing  in  the  road  with  other  young  people  of  the  vil- 
lage, youths  and  girls,  it  was  powerfully  borne  on  his 
mind  that  his  old  playmate  Marty  was  not  only  the  pret- 
tiest and  best  girl  in  the  place,  but  that  she  had  something 
which  set  her  apart  and  far,  far  above  all  other  women. 
For  now,  after  having  known  her  intimately  from  his  first 
years,  he  had  suddenly  fallen  in  love  with  her,  a  feeling 
which  caused  him  to  shiver  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy,  yet  made 
him  miserable  since  it  had  purged  his  si<rht  and  made  him 
see,  too,  how  far  apart  they  were  and  how  hopeless  his 
case.  It  was  true  that  they  had  been  comrades  from  child- 
hood, fond  of  each  other,  but  she  had  grown  and  devel- 
oped until  she  had  become  that  most  bright  and  lovely 
being,  while  he  had  remained  the  same  slow-witted,  awk- 


AN  OLD  THORN  207 

ward,  almost  inarticulate  Johnnie  he  had  always  been.  This 
feeling  preyed  on  his  poor  mind,  and  when  he  joined  the 
evening  gathering  in  the  village  street  he  noted  bitterly 
how  contemptuously  he  was  left  out  of  the  conversation 
by  the  others,  how  incapable  he  was  of  keeping  pace  with 
them  in  their  laughing  talk  and  banter.  And,  worst  of  all, 
how  Marty  was  the  leading  spirit,  bandying  words  and 
bestowing  smiles  and  pleasantries  all  round  but  never  a 
word  or  a  smile  for  him.  He  could  not  endure  it,  and  so 
instead  of  smartening  himself  up  after  work  and  going 
for  company  to  the  village  street,  he  would  walk  down  the 
secluded  lane  near  the  farm  to  spend  the  hour  before  sup- 
per and  bedtime  sitting  on  a  gate,  brooding  on  his  misery; 
and  if  by  chance  he  met  Marty  in  the  village  he  would 
try  to  avoid  her  and  was  silent  and  uncomfortable  in  her 
presence. 

After  work,  one  hot  summer  evening,  Johnnie  was  walk- 
ing along  the  road  near  the  farm  in  his  working-clothes, 
clay-coloured  boots,  and  old  dusty  hat,  when  who  should 
he  see  but  Marty  coming  toward  him,  looking  very  sweet 
and  fresh  in  her  light-coloured  print  gown.  He  looked  to 
this  side  and  that  for  some  friendly  gap  or  opening  in  the 
hedge  so  as  to  take  himself  out  of  the  road,  but  there  was 
no  way  of  escape  at  that  spot  and  he  had  to  pass  her,  and 
so  casting  down  his  eyes  he  walked  on,  wishing  he  could 
sink  into  the  earth  out  of  her  sight.  But  she  would  not 
allow  him  to  pass;  she  put  herself  directly  in  his  way  and 
spoke. 

"What's  the  matter  with  'ee,  Johnnie,  that  'ee  don't  want 
to  meet  me  and  hardly  say  a  word  when  I  speak  to  'ee?" 

He  could  not  find  a  word  in  reply:  he  stood  still,  his 
face  crimson,  his  eyes  on  the  ground. 

"Johnnie,  dear,  what  is  it?"  she  asked,  coming  closer 
and  putting  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

Then  he  looked  up,  and  seeing  the  sweet  compassion  in 
her  eyes  he  could  no  longer  keep  the  secret  of  his  pain 
from  her. 

"  Tis  'ee,  Marty,"  he  said.  "Thee'll  never  want  I — 
there's  others  'ee'll  like  better.  'Tisn't  for  I  to  say  a  word 


208  THE  GREAT  MODERN^  ENGLISH  STORIES 

about  that,  I'm  thinking,  for  I  be — just  nothing.  An' — an7 
— I  be  going  away  from  the  village,  Marty,  and  I'll  never 
come  back  no  more." 

"Oh,  Johnnie,  don't  'ee  say  it!  Would  'ee  go  and  break 
my  heart?  Don't  'ee  know  I've  always  loved  'ee  since 
we  were  little  mites  together?" 

And  thus  it  came  about  that  Johnnie,  most  miserable  of 
men,  was  all  at  once  made  happy  beyond  his  wildest 
dreams.  And  he  proved  himself  worthy  of  her:  from  that 
time  there  was  not  a  more  diligent  and  sober  young  labourer 
in  the  village,  nor  one  of  a  more  cheerful  disposition,  nor 
more  careful  of  his  personal  appearance  when,  the  day's 
work  done,  the  young  people  had  their  hour  of  social  in- 
tercourse and  courting.  Yet  he  was  able  to  put  by  a  por- 
tion of  his  weekly  wages  of  six  shillings  to  buy  sticks  so 
that  when  spring  came  round  again  he  was  able  to  marry 
and  take  Marty  to  live  with  him  in  his  own  cottage. 

One  Sunday  afternoon,  shortly  after  this  happy  event, 
they  went  out  for  a  walk  on  the  high  down. 

"Oh,  Johnnie,  'tis  a  long  time  since  we  were  here  to- 
gether, not  since  we  used  to  come  and  play  and  look  for 
cowslips  when  we  were  little." 

Johnnie  laughed  with  pure  joy  and  said  they  would  just 
be  children  and  play  again,  now  they  were  alone  and  out 
of  sight  of  the  village;  and  when  she  smiled  up  at  him  he 
rejoiced  to  think  that  his  union  with  this  perfect  girl  was 
producing  a  happy  effect  on  his  poor  brains,  making  him 
as  bright  and  ready  with  a  good  reply  as  any  one!  And 
in  their  happiness  they  played  at  being  children  just  as 
in  the  old  days  they  had  played  at  being  grown-ups.  Cast- 
ing themselves  down  on  the  green,  elastic,  flower-sprinkled 
turf,  they  rolled  one  after  the  other  down  the  smooth 
slopes  of  the  terrace,  the  old  "shepherd's  steps,"  and  by- 
and-by  Johnnie,  coming  upon  a  patch  of  creeping  thyme, 
rubbed  his  hands  in  the  pale  purple  flowers,  then  rubbed 
her  face  to  make  it  fragrant. 

.  "Oh,  'tis  sweet!"  she  cried.  "Did  'ee  ever  see  so  many 
little  flowers  on  the  down? — 'tis  as  if  they  came  out  just 
for  us."  Then,  indicating  the  tiny  milkwort  faintly  sprink- 


AN  OLD  THORN  209 

ling  the  turf  all  about  them,  "Oh,  the  little  blue  darlings! 
Did  'ee  ever  see  such  a  dear  blue?" 

"Oh,  aye,  a  prettier  blue  nor  that,"  said  Johnnie.  "  'Tis 
just  here,  Marty,"  and  pressing  her  down  he  kissed  her  on 
the  eyelids  a  dozen  times. 

"You  silly  Johnnie!" 

"Be  I  silly,  Marty?  but  I  love  the  red,  too,"  and  with 
that  he  kissed  her  on  the  mouth.  "And,  Marty,  I  do  love 
the  red  on  the  breasties,  too — won't  'ee  let  me  have  just 
one  kiss  there?" 

And  she,  to  please  him,  opened  her  dress  a  little  way, 
but  blushingly,  though  she  was  his  wife  and  nobody  was 
there  to  see,  but  it  seemed  strange  to  her  out  of  doors  with 
the  sun  overhead.  Oh,  'twas  all  delicious  1  Never  was 
earth  so  heavenly  sweet  as  on  that  wide  green  down, 
sprinkled  with  innumerable  little  flowers,  under  the  wide 
blue  sky  and  the  all-illuminating  sun  that  shone  into  their 
hearts! 

At  length,  rising  to  her  knees  and  looking  up  the  green 
slope,  she  cried  out:  "Oh,  Johnnie,  there's  the  old  thorn 
tree!  Do  'ee  remember  when  we  played  at  crows  on  it  and 
had  such  a  fright?  'Twas  the  last  time  we  came  here  to- 
gether. Come,  let's  go  to  the  old  tree  and  see  how  it  looks 
now." 

Johnnie  all  at  once  became  grave,  and  said  No,  he1 
wouldn't  go  to  it  for  anything.  She  was  curious  and  made 
him  tell  her  the  reason.  He  had  never  forgotten  that  day 
and  the  fear  that  came  into  his  mind  on  account  of  the 
words  the  strange  man  had  spoken.  She  didn't  know  what 
the  words  were:  she  had  been  too  frightened  to  listen,  and 
so  he  had  to  tell  her. 

"Then,  'tis  a  wishing-tree  for  sure,"  Marty  exclaimed. 
When  he  asked  her  what  a  wishing-tree  was,  she  could  only 
say  that  her  old  grandmother,  now  dead,  had  told  her.  'Tis 
a  tree  that  knows  us  and  can  do  us  good  and  harm,  but 
will  do  good  only  to  some;  but  they  must  go  to  it  and  ask 
for  its  protection,  and  they  must  offer  it  something  as  well 
as  pray  to  it.  It  must  be  something  bright — a  little  jewel 
or  coloured  bead  is  best,  and  if  you  haven't  got  such  a  thing, 


210  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISfl  STORIES 

a  bright-coloured  ribbon,  or  strip  of  scarlet  cloth  or  silk 
thread  which  you  must  tie  to  one  of  the  twigs. 

"But  we  hurted  the  tree,  Marty,  and  'twill  do  no  good 
to  we." 

They  were  both  grave  now;  then  a  hopeful  thought  came 
to  her  aid.  They  had  not  hurt  the  tree  intentionally:  the 
tree  knew  that — it  knew  more  than  any  human  being.  They 
might  go  and  stand  side  by  side  under  its  branches  and' 
ask  it  to  forgive  them,  and  grant  them  all  their  desires. 
But  they  must  not  go  empty-handed,  they  must  have  some 
bright  thing  with  them  when  making  their  prayer.  Then 
she  had  a  fresh  inspiration.  She  would  take  a  lock  of  her 
own  bright  hair  and  braid  it  with  some  of  his,  and  tie  it 
with  a  piece  of  scarlet  thread. 

Johnnie  was  pleased  with  this  idea,  and  they  agreed  to 
take  another  Sunday  afternoon  walk  and  carry  out  their 
plan. 

The  projected  walk  was  never  taken,  for  by-and-by 
Marty's  mother  fell  ill  and  Marty  had  to  be  with  her, 
nursing  her  night  and  day,  and  months  went  by,  and  at 
length  when  her  mother  died  she  was  not  in  a  fit  condi- 
tion to  go  long  walks  and  climb  those  long  steep  slopes. 
After  the  child  was  born  it  was  harder  than  ever  to  leave 
the  house,  and  Johnnie  too  had  so  much  work  at  the  farm 
that  he  had  little  inclination  to  go  out  on  Sundays.  They 
ceased  to  speak  of  the  tree,  and  their  long-projected  pil- 
grimage was  impracticable  until  they  could  see  better  days. 
But  the  wished  time  never  came,  for  after  the  first  child 
Marty  was  never  strong;  then  a  second  child  came,  then  a 
third,  and  so  five  years  went  by  of  toil  and  suffering  and 
love,  and  the  tree,  with  all  their  hopes  and  fears  and  in- 
tentions regarding  it,  was  less  and  less  in  their  minds  and 
was  all  but  forgotten.  Only  Johnnie,  when  at  long  in- 
tervals his  master  sent  him  to  Salisbury  with  the  cart,  re- 
membered it  all  only  too  well  when,  coming  to  the  top  of 
the  down,  he  saw  the  old  thorn  directly  before  him.  Pass- 
ing it  he  would  turn  his  face  away  not  to  see  it  too  closely, 
or  perhaps  to  avoid  being  recognised  by  it.  Then  came  the 
time  of  their  extreme  poverty,  when  there  was  no  work 


AN  OLD  THORN  211 

at  the  farm  and  no  one  of  their  own  people  to  help  them 
tide  over  a  season  of  scarcity,  for  the  old  people  were  dead 
or  in  the  workhouse  or  so  poor  as  to  want  help  themselves. 
It  was  then  that  in  his  misery  at  the  sight  of  his  ailing 
anxious  wife — the  dear  Marty  of  the  beautiful  vanished 
days — and  his  three  little  hungry  children,  that  he  went 
out  into  the  field  one  dark  night  to  get  them  food. 

The  whole  sad  history  was  in  his  mind  as  they  slowly 
crawled  up  the  hill,  until  it  came  to  him  that  perhaps  all 
their  sufferings  and  this  great  disaster  had  been  caused  by 
the  tree — by  that  something  from  the  tree  which  had  fol- 
lowed him,  never  resting  in  its  mysterious  enmity,  until  it! 
broke  him.  Was  it  too  late  to  repair  that  terrible  mistake? 
A  gleam  of  hope  shone  on  his  darkened  mind,  and  he  made 
his  passionate  appeal  to  the  constable.  He  had  no  offer- 
ing— his  hands  were  powerless  now;  but  at  least  he  could 
stand  by  it  and  touch  it  with  his  body  and  face  and  pray 
for  its  forgiveness  and  for  deliverance  from  the  doom  which 
threatened  him.  The  constable  had  compassionately  or 
from  some  secret  motive  granted  his  request,  but  alas!  if 
in  very  truth  the  power  he  had  come  to  believe  in  resided 
in  the  tree  he  was  too  late  in  seeking  it. 

The  trial  was  soon  over;  by  pleading  guilty  Johnnie  had 
made  it  a  very  simple  matter  for  the  court.  The  main  thing 
was  to  sentence  him.  By  an  unhappy  chance  the  judge 
was  in  one  of  his  occasional  bad  moods;  he  had  been  en- 
tertained too  well  by  one  of  the  local  magnates  on  the  pre- 
vious evening  and  had  sat  late,  drinking  too  much  wine, 
with  the  result  that  he  had  a  bad  liver,  with  a  mind  to 
match  it.  He  was  only  too  ready  to  seize  the  first  oppor- 
tunity that  offered — and  poor  Johnnie's  case  was  the  first 
that  morning — of  exercising  the  awful  power  a  barbarous 
law  had  put  into  his  hands.  When  the  prisoner's  defender 
declared  that  this  was  a  case  which  called  loudly  for  mercy 
the  judge  interrupted  him  to  say  that  he  was  taking  too 
much  on  himself,  that  he  was  in  fact  instructing  the  judge 
in  his  duties,  which  was  a  piece  of  presumption  on  his  part. 
The  other  was  quick  to  make  a  humble  apology  and  to 
bring  his  perfunctory  address  to  a  conclusion.  The  judge, 


212  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

in  addressing  the  prisoner,  said  he  had  been  unable  to  dis- 
cover any  extenuating  circumstances  in  the  case.  The  fact 
that  he  had  a  wife  and  family  dependent  on  him  only 
added  to  his  turpitude,  since  it  proved  that  no  consideration 
could  serve  to  deter  him  from  a  criminal  act.  Further- 
more, in  dealing  with  his  case,  he  must  take  into  account 
the  prevalence  of  this  particular  form  of  crime;  he  would 
venture  to  say  that  it  had  been  encouraged  by  an  extreme 
leniency  in  many  cases  on  the  part  of  those  whose  sacred 
duty  it  was  to  administer  the  law  of  the  land.  A  sterner 
and  healthier  spirit  was  called  for  at  the  present  juncture. 
The  time  had  come  to  make  an  example,  and  a  more  suit- 
able case  than  the  one  now  before  him  could  not  have  been 
found  for  such  a  purpose.  He  would  accordingly  hold  out 
no  hope  of  a  reprieve,  but  would  counsel  prisoner  to  make 
the  best  use  of  the  short  time  remaining  to  him. 

Johnnie  standing  in  the  dock  appeared  to  the  spectators 
to  be  in  a  half-dazed  condition — as  dull  and  spiritless  a 
clodhopper  as  they  had  ever  beheld.  The  judge  and  bar- 
risters, in  their  wigs  and  robes  and  gowns,  were  unlike  any 
human  beings  he  had  ever  looked  on.  He  might  have  been 
transported  to  some  other  world,  so  strange  did  the  whole 
scene  appear  to  him.  He  only  knew,  or  surmised,  that  all 
these  important  people  were  occupied  in  doing  him  to 
death,  but  the  process,  the  meaning  of  their  fine  phrases, 
he  could  not  follow.  He  looked  at  them,  his  glazed  eyes 
travelling  from  face  to  face  to  be  fixed  finally  on  the  judge 
in  a  vacant  stare;  but  he  scarcely  saw  them,  he  was  all 
the  time  gazing  on,  and  his  mind  occupied  with,  other  forms 
and  scenes  invisible  to  the  court.  His  village,  his  Marty, 
his  dear  little  playmate  of  long  ago,  the  sweet  girl  he  had 
won,  the  wife  and  mother  of  his  children  with  her  white 
terrified  face,  clinging  to  him  and  crying  in  anguish:  "Oh, 
Johnnie,  what  will  they  do  to  'ee!"  And  all  the  time,  with 
it  all,  he  saw  the  vast  green  slope  of  the  down  with  the 
Salisbury  road  lying  like  a  narrow  white  band  across  it, 
and  close  to  it,  near  the  summit,  the  solitary  old  tree. 

During  the  delivery  of  the  sentence,  and  when  he  was 
led  from  the  dock  and  conveyed  back  to  the  prison,  that 


AN  OLD  THORN  213 

image  or  vision  was  still  present.  He  sat  staring  at  the 
wall  of  his  cell  as  he  had  stared  at  the  judge,  the  fatal 
tree  still  before  him.  Never  before  had  he  seen  it  in  that 
vivid  way  in  which  it  appeared  to  him  now,  standing  alone 
on  the  vast  green  down,  under  the  wide  sky,  its  four  separate 
boles  leaning  a  little  away  from  each  other,  like  the  middle 
ribs  of  an  open  fan,  holding  up  the  wide,  spread  branches, 
the  thin  open  foliage,  the  green  leaves  stained  with  rusty 
brown  and  purple:  and  the  ivy  rising  like  a  slender  black 
serpent  of  immense  length  springing  from  the  roots,  wind- 
ing upwards  and  in  and  out  among  the  grey  branches, 
binding  them  together,  and  resting  its  round  dark  cluster 
of  massed  leaves  on  the  topmost  boughs.  That  green  disc 
was  the  ivy-serpent's  flat  head  and  was  the  head  of  the 
whole  tree,  and  there  it  had  its  eyes  which  gazed  for 
ever  over  the  wide  downs,  watching  all  living  things,  cattle 
and  sheep  and  bird  and  men  in  their  comings  and  goings; 
and  although  fast-rooted  in  the  earth,  following  them  too 
in  all  their  ways,  even  as  it  had  followed  him  to  break  him 
at  last. 


THE  FOURTH  MAGUS1 

BY  R.  B.  CUNNINGHAMS  GRAHAM 

SOME  ancient  writer  or  another — the  Arabs  frequently 
begin  a  tale  "Says  somebody" — relates  the  story  of 
his  life  and  miracles.  Balthasar,  Caspar,  and  Mel- 
chior  were,  as  he  tells  us,  kings  in  Babylon.  How  Babylon 
came  to  be  supplied  with  such  a  superfluity  of  kings  he  does 
not  say,  even  if  he  knew  why.  Still,  it  was  so,  for  all  of 
them  had  crowns;  rich  mantles  trimmed  with  ermine;  fine 
Arab  horses  with  legs  as  slim  as  a  gazelle's,  tails  floating  in 
the  air,  heads  like  a  peacock's,  eyes  that  shot  fire,  and  with 
a  general  air  as  of  a  hippogriff.  In  fact,  these  kings  had 
myrrh,  frankincense,  jewels,  furs,  scimitars,  vessels  of  rich- 
est plate,  and  everything  befitting  to  their  state. 

All  this  I  know,  for  I  have  seen  it  all  in  pictures,  and 
have  rejoiced  to  learn  their  horses  were  of  a  pale  cea-green 
or  else  of  a  rich  cinnamon,  colours  quite  natural  in  royal 
steeds,  and  blending  well  into  the  faint  blue  landscape  of  the 
Umbrian  School  of  painters,  who  alone  had  the  true  vision 
of  these  kings.  The  circumstance  that  one  of  them  was 
black  was  not  the  least  bit  disconcerting  to  the  painters 
(no  colour  line  exists  in  art),  but  on  the  contrary  it  helped 
them  in  their  work,  by  furnishing  a  contrast  to  the  pale, 
yellow  faces  of  the  other  two.  As  they  sat  in  their  palaces, 
following  the  usual  avocations  of  their  kind,  either  being 
occupied  in  administering  injustice  or  else  in  watching 
dancing-girls  gyrate,  strange  news  was  brought  into  the 
town. 

Shepherds,  all  seated  on  the  ground,  watching  their 
sheep  folded  inside  a  net  of  ropes,  their  dogs  beside  them, 

'From  "Hope."  By  permission  of  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Com- 
pany. 

214 


THE  FOURTH  MAGUS  215 

and  their  thoughts  fixed  on  the  heavens — as  often  hap- 
pens with  people  of  their  kind,  which  in  itself  accounts  why 
they  so  often  lose  their  sheep — had  seen  a  wondrous  star. 

Lustrous  and  bright  as  Sirius,  redder  than  Aldebaran,  and 
far  more  luminous  than  Zubenel-Chamali  or  Altair,  it  lighted 
all  the  sky.  Around  it  was  a  space  as  if  the  other  stars 
had  all  agreed  they  were  not  worthy  even  to  feel  its  radi- 
ance fall  upon  them,  and  it  appeared  to  beckon,  as  the 
shepherds  thought,  and  move  a  little  towards  the  West,  as 
if  inviting  them  to  follow  in  its  wake. 

Night  after  night  the  star  appeared  in  the  same  place, 
just  up  above  their  heads.  At  last,  seeing,  as  shepherds 
will,  something  miraculous  in  the  affair,  they  left  their 
flocks — for,  after  all,  what  is  a  sheep  or  two  beside  so 
bright  a  star — and  sought  out  a  Wise  Man.  After  con- 
sideration and  due  examination  of  the  case,  he  solved  the 
mystery,  telling  them  that  a  mighty  prophet  would  be 
born,  who  should  raise  up  the  lowly,  redress  injustices,  cast 
down  the  powerful,  make  rough  places  smooth,  and  be  the 
champion  of  the  weak  the  whole  world  over;  and  all  they 
had  to  do  was  but  to  follow  in  the  way  the  star  directed 
them,  and  it  would  take  them  to  the  place. 

Such  things  not  being  for  the  kind  of  men  they  were, 
they  went  to  Babylon,  and,  walking  up  and  down  about  the 
streets,  began  to  tell  what  they  had  seen  and  heard  to 
everyone  they  met.  Little  by  little  the  fame  of  what  they 
said  filled  all  men's  minds,  and  in  bazaars  and  markets,  in 
fondaks,  stores,  and  caravanserais,  the  wondrous  rumour 
grew. 

Lastly,  as  happens  in  such  cases,  now,  as  in  Babylon,  it 
passed  the  palace  gates.  The  kings  were  fired  with  it  at 
once,  either  being  filled  with  faith  and  hatred  of  injustice, 
things  natural  to  men  of  their  estate,  or  else  impelled  by 
that  desire  of  movement  which  in  kings  plays  the  part 
imagination  plays  in  poets  and  sets  their  blood  astir. 

So  taking  horse,  and  followed  by  a  fitting  retinue  car- 
rying the  presents  which  the  painters  of  the  Umbrian 
School  have  seen  so  well,  and  have  depicted  for  us  in  the 
middle  distance  of  their  canvases,  they  set  out  on  their 


216  THE  GREAT  MODERN^  ENGLISH  STORIES 

quest.  All  the  world  knows  the  story  of  their  ride,  and 
how,  following  the  star  over  the  plains,  through  the  defiles 
of  mountains,  and  across  rivers,  at  last  it  stopped  above 
the  stable  in  which  the  ox  and  ass  were  feeding,  making  a 
nimbus  with  their  warm  clover-scented  breath  round  the 
child's  head  as  it  lay  sleeping  in  the  crib.  Their  reward 
was  instant,  for  they  beheld  their  faith  made  patent  by 
their  work,  a  thing  that  few  attain,  however  firmly  they 
believe,  and  whilst  men  read  the  simple  story  of  their  brief 
passage  through  the  scene  of  history,  they  still  will  love 
them,  as  long  as  faith  and  stars  continue  and  shepherds 
watch  their  sheep  upon  the  plains.  They  saw  the  birth  of 
God  made  man,  and,  after  having  seen  it  and  adored,  be- 
came immortal;  but  the  fourth  Magus,  he  who  lingered 
on  the  road,  saw  man  made  God,  and  is  forgotten  and  un- 
known to  anyone  except  to  those  who,  like  some  diving 
negro,  seek  their  pearls  in  the  unnavigated  creeks  of  ancient 
chroniclers. 

That  Nicanor  hangs  out  of  fashion  on  his  rusty  nail,  and 
Caspar,  Balthasar,  and  Melchior  still  are  household  words, 
is  perhaps  natural,  for  they  by  faith  were  justified,  and 
faith  is  the  true  royal  road  to  fame.  King  Nicanor  followed 
the  path  along  which  man  from  the  beginning  of  the 
world  has  worn  out  countless  million  pairs  of  shoes,  blis- 
tered infinities  of  feet,  and  quite  as  naturally  has  been  for- 
gotten by  his  kind. 

This,  then,  is  how  the  thing  fell  out. 

When  the  three  kings  had  ridden  off  upon  their  quest, 
King  Nicanor  was  left  behind,  owing  to  his  horse  having 
cast  a  shoe.  When  the  Chaldean  smith  had  shod  the 
horse,  after  considerable  delay — for  then  as  now  in  black- 
smith's shops,  nothing  was  ready,  and  not  a  single  shoe 
in  the  whole  place  would  fit — Balthasar,  Melchior,  and 
Caspar  had  vanished  on  the  plain,  and  it  was  almost  night. 
Determining  to  make  at  least  a  start,  for  being  a  Wise 
Man  and  from  the  East,  where  people  know  the  benefit  of 
camping  even  a  league  outside  the  city  walls  upon  the  first 
day  of  a  journey,  Nicanor  got  on  his  horse  and  sallied 
forth,  passing  the  horseshoe  arch  of  the  great  gate  in  the 


THE  FOURTH  MAGUS  217 

town  wall  towards  the  west,  about  an  hour  before  the  sun 
had  set. 

The  camp  was  pitched  just  by  the  side  of  a  wide  cross- 
ing of  a  river  edged  by  palm  trees  and  broken  into  several 
channels  by  beds  of  sand  and  stones.  Right  at  the  cross- 
ing the  feet  of  camels  and  of  mules,  passing  for  centuries, 
had  made  a  well-defined  deep  track,  in  which  the  riders' 
feet  were  almost  on  the  ground  as  they  rode  through  to 
reach  the  stream,  their  horses  stumbling  occasionally  as 
they  struck  their  feet  against  the  sides.  Young  date  palms 
springing  from  the  sand  struggled  against  the  nibbling  of 
the  camels  and  the  mules  that  snatched  a  mouthful  as  they 
passed.  A  haze  of  orange  fading  into  pink  outlined  the 
palms  upon  the  farther  bank,  showing  each  knot  upon 
their  trunks.  In  the  light  air  the  leaves  just  stirred  and 
made  a  creaking  sound,  unlike  the  whispering  of  the  oaks 
and  beeches  of  the  north.  White  bones,  and  here  and  there 
a  skull,  showed  where  a  baggage  animal  had  been  released 
from  toil,  and  round  them  the  sparse  grass  grew  just  a  little 
greener,  and  myriads  of  the  minutest  flies  crawled  in  and 
out  between  the  vertebrae  of  the  dry  backbone  that  would 
never  more  bend  underneath  a  pack. 

Sitting  upon  his  horse,  with  one  leg  crossed  upon  its 
neck,  the  long  reins  dangling  almost  to  the  ground  as  it 
hung  down  its  head  a  little  to  snatch  a  mouthful  of  the 
grass,  the  Magus  gave  directions  to  his  men  to  pitch  his 
tents. 

Quickly  the  packs  were  lifted  off  the  mules'  and  camels' 
backs,  and  the  tents  rose  as  if  by  magic  from  the  sandy 
grass,  flecked  here  and  there  with  tiny  jonquils:  a  sky  of 
flowery  stars  spread  or  reflected  on  the  ground. 

The  evening  call  to  prayer,  which  Mahomet  must  have 
perpetuated,  for  it  could  not  have  sprung  into  his  brain 
unaided,  being  in  itself  a  necessary  action  after  the  daily 
battle  with  the  sun,  rang  out,  and  for  a  moment  all  the 
camp  was  prostrate,  thanking  some  god  or  other  for  the 
evening  breeze. 

Slowly  King  Nicanor  got  off  his  horse,  and  a  black  slave 
tied  it  up  to  the  rope  of  camel's  hair  which,  stretched  be- 


2i8  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

tween  two  stakes,  was  set  before  his  tent.  Its  lofty  saddle 
stood  up  like  an  island  outlined  against  the  deep  blue  clouds, 
for  nothing  broke  the  horizon  to  the  south  but  the  tents 
and  the  feeding  animals.  As  Nicanor  sat  on  a  saddle-cloth 
before  his  tent  thinking  upon  the  wondrous  star  of  which 
the  shepherds  had  brought  tidings,  and  inwardly  determin- 
ing to  push  on  at  the  first  light  of  day  to  catch  up  his  com- 
panions, three  or  four  figures  came  out  of  the  palm  grove, 
and  dragging  themselves  slowly  across  the  sand  and  grass, 
stood  in  a  row  before  him  and  pointed  upwards  to  the  sky 
with  a  mute  gesture  of  despair.  Famine  had  wasted  them 
almost  beyond  the  semblance  of  mankind.  Their  sunken 
stomachs  and  protruding  ribs  made  them  look  something 
like  a  fossil  fish  embedded  in  the  coal-measures,  whilst  their 
thin  arms  and  legs  hardly  sustained  their  feet  and  hands, 
which  looked  enormous  in  comparison  to  their  shrunk, 
wasted  limbs.  Save  for  a  wisp  of  dirty  cotton  rags  about 
their  loins  they  were  as  naked  as  a  skeleton,  and  their 
parched  tongues  were  rough  and  horny,  like  a  parrot's! 
within  their  parchment-looking  mouths. 

The  Magus  gazed  at  them  fascinated,  and  in  a  moment 
the  wondrous  star  and  the  new  prophet  to  be  born  into  the 
world  were  both  forgotten  in  the  horror  of  the  scene.  As 
he  stood  petrified,  from  every  side,  from  hollows  scooped 
out  of  the  sand,  from  tufts  of  thorny  shrubs,  thin  tottering 
figures  rose  and  staggered  to  his  tent.  Women  held  chil- 
dren by  the  hand,  and  miserable  boys  supported  aged  men, 
whilst  an  old  crone  crawled  on  her  hands  and  knees  close  to 
his  feet,  and  then,  raising  herself  a  little,  pointed  a  skinny 
finger  to  the  sky.  None  of  them  spoke,  but  the  mute 
glance  of  their  beseeching  eyes  struck  horror  to  his  soul. 
When  he  could  speak  he  called  for  bread,  and  with  his 
men  cut  it  in  slices,  then  moistening  it  in  water  passed  it 
along  the  ranks.  It  vanished  as  by  magic,  but  still  the 
line  grew  longer,  and  in  the  moonlight  the  famine-stricken 
people  looked  like  a  troop  of  wolves  that  had  surrounded 
some  belated  traveller  on  the  plain.  Some  of  the  people 
snatched  the  barley  from  the  horses  and  the  mules  as  they 
stood  feeding,  whilst  others  struggled  for  the  crumbs, 


THE  FOURTH  MAGUS  219 

fighting  like  starving  dogs.  King  Nicanor  called  to 
his  men  and  sent  back  two  of  them  to  bring  a  mule 
laden  with  bread  from  town,  as  the  throng  seemed  to  grow 
as  if  the  people  sprang  up  from  the  sand.  The  mule-load 
disappeared  almost  as  quickly  as  if  it  had  been  thrown  into 
the  sea.  Night  waned  and  the  first  flush  of  dawn  still 
found  the  Magus  and  his  camp  besieged  with  famine-strick- 
en folk.  Several  days  passed,  and  then  the  starvelings, 
having  eaten,  vanished  as  speedily  as  they  had  come,  leav- 
ing no  trace  of  their  appearance  except  upon  the  Wise 
Man's  soul.  Then,  after  resting  for  a  day,  he  once  more 
set  out  on  his  way.  The  sun  was  rising  as  he  struck  his 
camp,  and  as  he  started  once  again  towards  the  west  his 
thoughts  reverted  to  the  birth  of  the  great  prophet,  the 
wondrous  star,  and  to  his  friends,  whom  he  supposed  would 
now  be  almost  at  their  journey's  end. 

He  caught  himself  at  times  almost  regretting  the  delay 
the.  starving  folk  had  brought  about,  and  then  again  thought 
that  if  the  prophet  to  be  born  had  come  to  heal  the  sor- 
rows of  the  world,  to  clothe  the  naked,  heal  the  sick,  and 
feed  the  hungry,  that  at  least  he  had  tried  humbly  to  do 
likewise,  though  not  himself  inspired;  and  that  there  still 
was  left  good  work  to  do  on  earth  during  the  childhood 
of  the  great  one,  whose  birth  he  hoped  to  see. 

So  he  rode  on,  finding  upon  his  path  here  a  blind  man 
and  there  some  wayfarer  sitting  dejectedly  beside  his  dy- 
ing horse.  Each  case  delayed  him,  and  when  he  reached 
a  town  his  fame  had  gone  before  him,  and  halt  and  sick, 
those  who  had  had  their  eyes  burned  out  for  theft,  and  others 
who  had  lost  a  hand  or  foot,  lopped  off  to  show  that  justice 
was  as  deaf  to  pity  as  she  is  blind  to  facts,  swarmed  round 
him  and  implored  his  alms. 

Sometimes  when  passing  a  lone  duar  on  the  plains,  just 
at  the  saint's  house,  with  its  tuft  of  feathery  palms,  some 
wretch  would  sally  forth  and,  rushing  to  his  side,  clutch 
fast  his  stirrup,  exclaiming,  "I  take  refuge  with  you,"  and 
he  would  stop  and  look  into  his  case. 

Still,  though  he  knew  the  prophet  must  by  this  time  be 
a  youth  and  growing  to  a  man,  when  he  escaped  from  the 


220  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

accumulating  cares  his  pilgrimage  had  brought  upon  him 
he  pressed  on  towards  the  west.  Across  the  heated  plains 
at  times  he  toiled,  mocked  by  the  mirage,  and  with  the 
heat  reflected  from  some  stony  tract  burning  his  face,  and 
sometimes  through  some  mountain  pass  where  the  frost 
froze  his  stirrups  to  his  boots,  he  kept  upon  his  way,  just 
as  men  labour  towards  a  goal  they  know  it  is  impossible 
to  reach,  unconscious  that  they  carry  it  within  themselves 
from  the  first  day  on  which  they  had  set  out. 

Years  passed,  and  not  an  animal  which  he  had  brought 
from  Babylon  remained  alive,  some  having  died  upon  the 
road,  and  others  of  old  age,  in  the  long  halts  he  made  in 
cities  where  some  injustice  or  another  had  detained  him 
on  his  way.  Still,  as  he  lingered,  endeavouring  to  do  good, 
news  reached  him  now  and  then  about  the  doings  of  the 
prophet  whose  birth  he  once  had  hoped  to  see,  and  when 
he  got  the  news  a  sort  of  fever  would  come  over  him, 
making  him  long  to  see  him  ere  he  died. 

The  flight  of  time  had  not  left  Nicanor  unaltered,  and 
from  the  sleek  and  prosperous  king  who  had  left  Babylon 
so  many  years  ago,  young,  careless,  and  with  hope  spring- 
ing in  his  heart,  he  had  become  a  weather-beaten  man, 
grizzled  and  careworn,  and  in  his  eyes  had  come  that  look 
of  watchfulness  that  comes  to  those  who  pass  their  lives 
upon  the  road. 

The  horse  he  rode,  a  darkish  bay  of  the  Keheilan  breed, 
he  had  received  from  an  old  Bedouin  chief  near  Baalbec, 
whose  son  he  nursed  when  stricken  with  the  plague.  No 
other  horse  throughout  Irak  could  be  compared  with  it, 
either  for  shape  or  blood.  His  full  round  eyes,  and  ears 
lean  as  a  lynx's,  his  round  and  flinty  feet,  broad  forehead, 
silky  mane,  and  tail  he  carried  like  a  flag,  with  the  sunk 
channel  running  down  his  spine,  which,  as  the  Arabs  say, 
could  carry  off  the  dew,  showed  him  an  archetype  of  the 
breed  which  alone  amongst  all  the  horses  of  the  world  is 
truly  noble  and  fit  for  kings  to  ride.  Years  had  fallen 
lightly  on  King  Nicanor  himself,  leaving  him  upright,  though 
they  had  flecked  his  hair  with  grey  upon  the  temples,  and 
given  him  that  gravity  which  many  Orientals  seem  to 


THE  FOURTH  MAGUS  221 

acquire  in  middle  life,  as  it  were,  by  an  effort  of  the 
mind.  Most  of  his  followers  had  returned  home  or  died, 
except  a  man  or  two  who,  by  long  converse  with  their 
master,  had  imbibed  some  of  his  ideas,  or  else  found  life 
upon  the  road  too  pleasant  to  desert  and  dwell  again  in 
the  dull  round  of  cities,  seeing  the  sun  rise  from  behind  the 
selfsame  mountain  range  and  sink  into  the  plain,  at  eve- 
ning, leaving  no  sign  to  mark  its  passage  through  the  sky, 
just  as  a  stone  sinks  out  of  sight  into  a  pond. 

Now  and  again  strange  rumours  reached  the  wandering 
Magus  of  what  was  going  on  in  the  far  country  he  had  left 
home  to  visit,  and  how  the  prophet  who  had  come  had 
gathered  to  himself  a  rout  of  fishermen,  of  outcasts,  publi- 
cans, and  women,  who,  it  appeared,  all  followed  him  about, 
striving  to  found  no  kingdom,  but  listening  to  his  words 
in  desert  places  and  on  the  tops  of  hills.  Much  did  he 
ponder  on  the  tidings,  thinking  at  first  the  prophet  must 
be  mad,  and  then,  as  he  thought  more  upon  the  case,  see- 
ing a  half-resemblance  to  his  own  way  of  life,  that  is,  of 
course,  with  that  due  difference  of  their  respective  stand- 
ings in  the  world,  taken  into  account. 

At  last,  for  even  in  the  East  all  things  draw  to  an  end, 
he  found  himself  close  to  Jerusalem.  Halting  upon  a  hill 
which  overlooked  the  town,  he  pitched  his  camp  near  to  a 
well,  close  to  which  grew  a  grove  of  olive  trees.  As  he 
sat,  after  so  many  years,  gazing  down  on  the  city  where 
he  had  heard  the  prophet  lived,  whose  wondrous  birth, 
heralded  by  the  bright  star,  had  induced  him  in  his  early 
manhood  to  set  forth  from  Babylon,  he  looked  back  on 
his  life.  The  city  lay  beneath  him,  bathed  in  the  golden 
haze  that  in  the  East  hides  mouldering  palaces  and  tottering 
weed-grown  walls  into  whose  chinks  dart  lizards  in  their 
play,  blots  out  the  dirt  and  squalor  and  gilds  the  broken 
potsherds  on  the  great  dunghills  by  the  gates,  setting  all 
floating  in  a  sea  of  glory,  above  whose  waters  float  the 
feathery  palms. 

After  the  custom,  which  in  his  case  was  now  well  sanc- 
tified by  time,  the  camp  of  the  Wise  Man — for  now  at  last, 
being  in  Jerusalem,  he  was  a  Wise  Man  of  the  East — was 


222   THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

overrun  by  beggars,  halt  and  blind.  From  them  he  learned 
that  on  the  morrow  the  Romans,  who  had  become  the  mas- 
ters of  the  place  since  he  set  out  upon  his  travels  from  the 
East,  were  going  to  execute  two  thieves,  and  one  who,  as 
they  said,  was  to  be  put  to  death  for  having  called  himself 
a  king. 

After  the  beggars  had  been  supplied  with  bread,  a  wan- 
dering fakir  came  to  the  camp,  and  sitting  down  before  the 
tent  entered  into  one  of  those  long  conversations  which  in 
the  East  supply  the  place  of  newspapers,  filling  exactly  the 
same  use  even  to  the  extent  of  tinging  all  the  news  with 
the  narrator's  sympathies,  just  as  a  newspaper  is  but  the 
mirror  of  the  mind  of  those  who  write  in  it. 

Long  did  the  dervish  talk  about  the  state  of  Palestine, 
the  price  of  bread  and  barley,  the  raids  the  tribes  had  made 
on  one  another's  herds,  and  lastly,  of  the  execution  which 
was  going  to  be  held. 

The  thieves  he  touched  on  lightly,  saying  they  both  were 
sons  of  mothers  who  had  never  yet  said  no.  He  thought 
the  name  of  one  of  them  was  Dimas,  the  other  Gestas,  but 
was  not  sure  of  their  identity.  Of  the  third  sufferer,  the 
one  who  had  been  called  a  king,  he  had  more  details,  and 
remarked,  by  the  sun's  light,  he  is  a  man. 

Little  by  little  he  unfolded  all  he  knew  about  the  man 
who  was  to  pay  the  penalty  of  being  called  a  king.  It 
seemed  that  prodigies  had  happened  at  his  birth.  A  star 
had  heralded  it,  and  three  Wise  Men  had  come  out  of  the 
East  .  .  .  wisdom  is  in  the  East,  the  stranger  said,  with 
the  air  of  one  who  enunciates  a  fact  that  none  can  contro- 
vert. King  Nicanor,  who  all  the  time  had  listened  patiently, 
broke  in  upon  the  tale,  exclaiming:  "These  Wise  Men,  I 
know  them  well,  their  names  are  Caspar,  Melchior,  and 
Balthasar.  They  are  my  kinsmen;  are  they  still  in  the 
town?" 

The  dervish  looked  at  him,  as  people  look  upon  a  man 
who,  without  rhyme  or  reason,  suddenly  has  a  lapse  of  mem- 
ory, and  answered:  "In  the  town!  .  .  .  Why,  they  were 
here,  as  I  heard  tell,  some  three-and- thirty  years  ago,  and 
only  stayed  a  night." 


THE  FOURTH  MAGUS  223 

Drawing  his  hand  across  his  eyes  the  Magus  muttered: 
"Three-and-thirty  years  ago — it  seems  but  yesterday  when 
I  set  out.  This  prophet  then  of  whom  you  speak,  who  dies 
to-morrow,  is  the  wondrous  babe  of  whom  the  shepherds 
told  of  yesterday — that  is,  three-and- thirty  years  ago;  but 
he  was  to  redress  men's  wrongs,  lift  up  the  down-trodden, 
to  heal  the  halt,  make  the  blind  see,  fight  the  oppressor,  and 
be  a  shield  unto  the  weak..  Can  it  be  then  that  in  Jerusalem 
they  execute  a  man  for  striving  for  such  ends?" 

If  the  fakir  had  thought  the  speaker  mad  at  first,  he  now 
looked  on  him  as  a  lunatic. 

"Where  have  you  lived,"  he  said,  "and  do  not  know  that 
such  a  man  since  the  beginning  of  the  world  can  have  but 
such  a  fate?" 

King  Nicanor,  after  a  pause,  said:  "I  have  lived,  as  I 
now  see,  upon  the  road,  never  remaining  very  long  in  any 
place;  but  I  remember  now  and  then  it  has  amazed  me, 
that  when  I  fed  the  hungry,  as  you  say  this  man  who  is  to 
die  has  done,  that  many  hated  me,  saying  I  did  it  all  for 
the  love  of  praise." 

Hours  came  and  hours  passed  as  they  sat  talking,  and  by 
degrees  King  Nicanor  heard  all  the  prophet's  life,  his  love 
of  liberty,  his  truth,  his  justice,  charity,  and  how  the  peo- 
ple loved  him,  especially  the  lowly  and  the  meek,  and  of  the 
special  charm  he  had  for  women,  the  sweetness  of  his  nature, 
and  how  no  one  who  ever  heard  him  but  fell  beneath  his 
spell. 

At  last,  as  dawn  began  to  creep  into  the  sky  with  a  pale 
milky  whiteness  that  gradually  extended  through  the  deep, 
blue  eastern  night,  just  as  a  drop  or  two  of  mastic  tinges 
the  water  in  a  glass,  King  Nicanor  rose  to  his  feet  and  said : 
"It  is  now  time  to  rest.  Fate  has  deprived  me  of  the  joy 
of  being  present  at  the  birth  of  him  the  star  announced;  I 
can  at  least  be  present  at  his  death  .  .  .  and  birth  and 
death  are  not  so  very  different,  after  all." 

Fate,  though,  that  mocks  our  resolutions,  making  us  but 
the  creatures  of  itself,  had  almost  made  him  miss  the  chance, 
for  in  the  morning  he  found  his  camp  besieged  with  a  great 
horde  of  beggars  and  of  folk  who  had  heard  that  one  who, 


224  THE  GREAT  MODERN,  ENGLISH  STORIES 

some  said,  was  a  fool  and  others  a  Wise  Man,  but  who  in 
any  case  gave  bread  away  to  all  who  asked  for  it,  had  come 
into  the  town. 

All  day  he  sat  and  gave  his  alms  and  listened  to  their 
plaints,  until  the  seventh  hour  or  the  eighth,  and  then 
mounting  his  horse,  rode  up  to  Golgotha.  Darkness  was 
spread  upon  the  land  as  he  toiled  up  the  rocky  path,  making 
his  way  with  difficulty  through  the  press. 

Right  at  the  top,  in  the  half-light  he  saw  three  figures  set 
on  high.  Two  of  them  hung  inert;  the  third  just  stirred  and 
asked  for  drink,  and  Nicanor  observed  that  his  long  hair 
hung  down  upon  one  side  and  half  obscured  his  face. 

Just  at  that  moment  a  young  man  came  running  with  a 
sponge  of  vinegar  upon  a  reed,  and,  holding  it  up  to  the 
middle  figure,  pushed  it  into  his  mouth.  He  drank,  and  after 
a  long  shiver  had  run  through  his  body,  he  gave  a  cry  so 
wild  and  terrible  that  the  dark  bay  Kehlani  that,  the  king 
rode  reared  up  and  snorted,  pawing  the  air  with  his  fore  feet, 
and  as  he  struck  the  ground  King  Nicanor  saw  that  the  mid- 
dle figure  hung  limp  upon  the  cross. 


THE  GHOST-SHIP1 

BY  RICHARD  MIDDLETON 

F AIRFIELD  is  a  little  village  lying  near  the  Portsmouth 
Road,  about  half-way  between  London  and  the  sea. 
Strangers  who  now  and  then  find  it  by  accident,  call  it 
a  pretty,  old-fashioned  place;  we  who  live  in  it  and  call  it 
home  don't  find  anything  very  pretty  about  it,  but  we  should 
be  sorry  to  live  anywhere  else.  Our  minds  have  taken  the 
shape  of  the  inn  and  the  church  and  the  green,  I  suppose. 
At  all  events,  we  never  feel  comfortable  out  of  Fairfield. 

Of  course  the  cocknej^s,  with  their  vasty  houses  and  noise- 
ridden  streets,  can  call  us  rustics  if  they  choose;  but  for 
all  that,  Fairfield  is  a  better  place  to  live  in  than  London. 
Doctor  says  that  when  he  goes  to  London  his  mind  is  bruised 
with  the  weight  of  the  houses,  and  he  was  a  cockney  born. 
He  had  to  live  there  himself  when  he  was  a  little  chap,  but 
he  knows  better  now.  You  gentlemen  may  laugh, — per- 
haps some  of  you  come  from  London-way — but  it  seems 
to  me  that  a  witness  like  that  is  worth  a  gallon  of  argu- 
ments. 

Dull?  Well,  you  might  find  it  dull,  but  I  assure  you  that 
I've  listened  to  all  the  London  yarns  you  have  spun  to- 
night, and  they're  absolutely  nothing  to  the  things  that  hap- 
pen at  Fairfield.  It's  because  of  our  way  of  thinking,  and 
minding  our  own  business.  If  one  of  your  Londoners  was  set 
down  on  the  green  of  a  Saturday  night  when  the  ghosts 
of  the  lads  who  died  in  the  war  keep  tryst  with  the  lasses 
who  lie  in  the  churchyard,  he  couldn't  help  being  curious  and 

1  This  story  is  reprinted  by  permission  of  Mitchell  Kennerley, 
the  authorised  publisher  in  America  of  Richard  Middleton's 
books.  It  is  taken  from  the  volume,  "The  Ghost  Ship  and  Other 
Stories." 

225 


226   THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

interfering,  and  then  the  ghosts  would  go  somewhere  where 
it  was  quieter.  But  we  just  let  them  come  and  go  and  don't 
make  any  fuss,  and  in  consequence  Fairneld  is  ths  ghosti- 
est  place  in  all  England.  Why,  I've  seen  a  headless  man 
sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  well  in  broad  daylight,  and  the 
children  playing  about  his  feet  as  if  he  were  their  father. 
Take  my  word  for  it,  spirits  know  when  they  are  well  off  as 
much  as  human  beings. 

Still,  I  must  admit  that  the  thing  I'm  going  to  tell  you 
about  was  queer  even  for  our  part  of  the  world,  where  three 
packs  of  ghost-hounds  hunt  regularly  during  the  season,  and 
blacksmith's  great-grandfather  is  busy  all  night  shoeing  the 
dead  gentlemen's  horses.  Now  that's  a  thing  that  wouldn't 
happen  in  London,  because  of  their  interfering  ways;  but 
blacksmith  he  lies  up  aloft  and  sleeps  as  quiet  as  a  lamb. 
Once  when  he  had  a  bad  head  he  shouted  down  to  them  not 
to  make  so  much  noise,  and  in  the  morning  he  found  an  old 
guinea  left  on  the  anvil  as  an  apology.  He  wears  it  on  his 
watch-chain  now.  But  I  must  get  on  with  my  story;  if  I 
start  telling  you  about  the  queer  happenings  at  Fairneld 
I'll  never  stop. 

It  all  came  of  the  great  storm  in  the  spring  of  '97,  the 
year  that  we  had  two  great  storms.  This  was  the  first  one, 
and  I  remember  it  well,  because  I  found  in  the  morning 
that  it  had  lifted  the  thatch  of  my  pigsty  into  the  widow's 
garden  as  clean  as  a  boy's  kite.  When  I  looked  over  the 
hedge,  widow — Tom  Lamport's  widow  that  was — was  prod- 
ding for  her  nasturtiums  with  a  daisy-grubber.  After  I  had 
watched  her  for  a  little  I  went  down  to  the  Fox  and  Grapes 
to  tell  landlord  what  she  had  said  to  me.  Landlord  he 
laughed,  being  a  married  man  and  at  ease  with  the  sex. 
"Come  to  that,"  he  said,  "the  tempest  has  blowed  something 
into  my  field.  A  kind  of  a  ship  I  think  it  would  be." 

I  was  surprised  at  that  until  he  explained  that  it  was  only 
a  ghost-ship,  and  would  do  no  hurt  to  the  turnips.  We  ar- 
gued that  it  had  been  blown  up  from  the  sea  at  Portsmouth, 
and  then  we  talked  of  something  else.  There  were  two 
slates  down  at  the  parsonage  and  a  big  tree  in  Lumley's 
meadow.  It  was  a  rare  storing 

•*.  .,  .» 


THE  GHOST-SHIP  227 

I  reckon  the  wind  had  blown  our  ghosts  all  over  England. 
They  were  coming  back  for  days  afterward  with  foundered 
horses,  and  as  footsore  as  possible,  and  they  were  so  glad  to 
get  back  to  Fairfield  that  some  of  them  walked  up  the 
street  ciying  like  little  children.  Squire  said  that  his  great- 
grandfather's great-grandfather  hadn't  looked  so  dead-beat 
since  the  battle  of  Naseby,  and  he's  an  educated  man. 

What  with  one  thing  and  another,  I  should  think  it  was  a 
week  before  we  got  straight  again,  and  then  one  afternoon 
I  met  the  landlord  on  the  green,  and  he  had  a  worried  face. 
"I  wish  you'd  come  and  have  a  look  at  that  ship  in  my 
field,"  he  said  to  me.  "It  seems  to  me  it's  leaning  real  hard 
on  the  turnips.  I  can't  bear  thinking  what  the  missus  will 
say  when  she  sees  it." 

I  walked  down  the  lane  with  him,  and,  sure  enough,  there 
was  a  ship  in  the  middle  of  his  field,  but  such  a  ship  as 
no  man  had  seen  on  the  water  for  three  hundred  years,  let 
alone  in  the  middle  of  a  turnip-field.  It  was  all  painted 
black,  and  covered  with  carvings,  and  there  was  a  great  bay- 
window  in  the  stern,  for  all  the  world  like  the  squire's  draw- 
ing-room. There  was  a  crowd  of  little  black  cannon  on 
deck  and  looking  out  of  her  port-holes,  and  she  was  an- 
chored at  each  end  to  the  hard  ground.  I  have  seen  the 
wonders  of  the  world  on  picture  post-cards,  but  I  have  never 
seen  anything  to  equal  that. 

"She  seems  very  solid  for  a  ghost-ship,"  I  said,  seeing  that 
landlord  was  bothered. 

"I  should  say  it's  a  betwixt  and  between,"  he  answered, 
puzzling  it  over;  "but  it's  going  to  spoil  a  matter  of  fifty 
turnips,  and  missus  she'll  want  it  moved."  We  went  up  to 
her  and  touched  the  side,  and  it  was  as  hard  as  a  real 
ship.  "Now,  there's  folks  in  England  would  call  that  very 
curious,"  he  said. 

Now,  I  don't  know  much  about  ships,  but  I  should  think' 
that  that  ghost-ship  weighed  a  solid  two  hundred  tons,  and 
it  seemed  to  me  that  she  had  come  to  stay;  so  that  I  felt 
sorry  for  the  landlord,  who  was  a  married  man.  "All  the 
horses  in  Fairfield  won't  move  her  out  of  my  turnips,"  he 
said,  frowning  at  her. 


228   THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

Just  then  we  heard  a  noise  on  her  deck,  and  we  looked  up 
and  saw  that  a  man  had  come  out  of  her  front  cabin  and 
was  looking  down  at  us  very  peaceably.  He  was  dressed  in 
a  black  uniform  set  off  with  rusty  gold  lace,  and  he  had 
a  great  cutlass  by  his  side  in  a  brass  sheath.  "I'm  Captain 
Bartholomew  Roberts,"  he  said  in  a  gentleman's  voice,  put 
in  for  recruits.  "I  seem  to  have  brought  her  rather  far  up 
the  harbour." 

"Harbour  1 "  cried  landlord.  "Why,  you're  fifty  miles  from 
the  sea." 

Captain  Roberts  didn't  turn  a  hair.  "So  much  as  that,  is 
it?"  he  said  coolly.  "Well,  it's  of  no  consequence." 

Landlord  was  a  bit  upset  at  this.  "I  don't  want  to  be 
unneighbourly,"  he  said,  "but  I  wish  you  hadn't  brought 
your  ship  into  my  field.  You  see,  my  wife  sets  great  store 
on  these  turnips." 

The  captain  took  a  pinch  of  snuff  out  of  a  fine  gold  box 
that  he  pulled  out  of  his  pocket,  and  dusted  his  fingers  with 
a  silk  handkerchief  in  a  very  genteel  fashion.  "I'm  only  here 
for  a  few  months,"  he  said,  "but  if  a  testimony  of  my  esteem 
would  pacify  your  good  lady,  I  should  be  content,"  and  with 
the  words  he  loosed  a  great  gold  brooch  from  the  neck  of 
his  coat  and  tossed  it  down  to  landlord. 

Landlord  blushed  as  red  as  a  strawberry.  "I'm  not  de- 
nying she's  fond  of  jewelry,"  he  said;  "but  it's  too  much 
for  half  a  sackful  of  turnips."  Indeed,  it  was  a  handsome 
brooch. 

The  captain  laughed.  "Tut,  man! "  he  said,  "it's  a  forced 
sale,  and  you  deserve  a  good  price.  Say  no  more  about  it," 
and  nodding  good  day  to  us,  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  went 
into  the  cabin.  Landlord  walked  back  up  the  lane  like  a 
man  with  a  weight  off  his  mind.  "That  tempest  has  blowed 
me  a  bit  of  luck,"  he  said;  "the  missus  will  be  main  pleased 
with  that  brooch.  It's  better  than  blacksmith's  guinea  any 
day." 

'97  was  Jubilee  year — the  year  of  the  second  Jubi- 
lee, you  remember,  and  we  had  great  doings  at  Fair- 
field,  so  that  we  hadn't  much  time  to  bother  about  the 
ghost-ship,  though,  anyhow,  it  isn't  our  way  to  meddle  in 


THE  GHOST-SHIP  229 

things  that  don't  concern  us.  Landlord  he  saw  his  tenant 
once  or  twice  when  he  was  hoeing  his  turnips,  and  passed  the 
time  of  day,  and  landlord's  wife  wore  her  new  brooch  to 
church  every  Sunday.  But  we  didn't  mix  much  with  the 
ghosts  at  any  time,  all  except  an  idiot  lad  there  was  in  the 
village,  and  he  didn't  know  the  difference  between  a  man 
and  a  ghost,  poor  innocen; !  On  Jubilee  day,  however,  some- 
body told  Captain  Roberts  why  the  church  bells  were  ring- 
ing, and  he  hoisted  a  flag  and  fired  off  his  guns  like  a  loyal 
Englishman.  'Tis  true  the  guns  were  shotted,  and  one  of 
the  round  shot  knocked  a  hole  in  Farmer  Johnstone's  bam, 
but  nobody  thought  much  of  that  in  such  a  season  of  re- 
joicing. 

It  wasn't  till  our  celebrations  were  over  that  we  noticed 
that  anything  was  wrong  in  Fairfield.  'Twas  shoemaker 
who  told  me  first  about  it  one  morning  at  the  Fox  and 
Grapes.  "You  know  my  great-great-uncle?"  he  said  to  me. 

"You  mean  Joshua,  the  quiet  lad?"  I  answered,  knowing 
him  well. 

"Quiet!"  said  shoemaker,  indignantly.  "Quiet  you  call 
him,  coming  home  at  three  o'clock  every  morning  as  drunk 
as  a  magistrate  and  waking  up  the  whole  house  With  his 
noise!" 

"Why,  it  can't  be  Joshua,"  I  said,  for  I  knew  him  for  one 
of  the  most  respectable  young  ghosts  in  the  village. 

"Joshua  it  is,"  said  the  shoemaker;  "and  one  of  these 
nights  he'll  find  himself  out  in  the  street  if  he  isn't  care- 
ful." 

This  kind  of  talk  shocked  me,  I  can  tell  you,  for  I  don't 
like  to  hear  a  man  abusing  his  own  family,  and  I  could 
hardly  believe  that  a  steady  youngster  like  Joshua  had  taken 
to  drink.  But  just  then  in  came  butcher  Aylwin  in  such  a 
temper  that  he  could  hardly  drink  his  beer.  "The  young 
puppy!  the  young  puppy!"  ne  kept  on  saying,  and  it  was 
some  time  before  shoemaker  and  I  found  out  that  he  was 
talking  about  his  ancestor  that  fell  at  Senlac. 

"Drink?"  said  the  shoemaker,  hopefully,  for  we  all  like 
company  in  our  misfortune,  and  butcher  nodded  grimly. 
"The  young  noodle!"  he  said,  emptying  his  tankard. 


230  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

Well,  after  that  I  kept  my  ears  open,  and  it  was  the  same 
story  all  over  the  village.  There  was  hardly  a  young  man 
among  all  the  ghosts  of  Fairfield  who  didn't  roll  home  in  the 
small  hours  of  the  morning  the  worse  for  liquor.  I  used 
to  wake  up  in  the  night  and  heaiLthem  stumble  past  my 
house  singing  outrageous  songs.  |The  worst  of  it  was  that 
we  couldn't  keep  the  scandal  to  ourselves,  and  the  folk  at 
Greenhill  began  to  talk  of  "sodden  Fairfield"  and  taught 
their  children  to  sing  a  song  about  us: 

Sodden  Fairfield,  sodden  Fairfield, 
Has  no  use  for  bread  and  butter, 

Rum  for  breakfast,  rum  for  dinner,    , 
Rum  for  tea,  and  rum  for  supper !  \ 

We  are  easy-going  in  our  village,  but  we  didn't  like  that.\ 

Of  course  we  soon  found  out  where  the  young  fellows  went 
to  get  the  drink,  and  landlord  was  terribly  cut  up  that  his 
tenant  should  have  turned  out  so  badly;  but  his  wife 
wouldn't  hear  of  parting  with  the  brooch,  so  he  couldn't  give 
the  captain  notice  to  quit.  But  as  time  went  on,  things 
grew  from  bad  to  worse,  and  at  all  hours  of  the  day  you 
would  see  those  young  reprobates  sleeping  it  off  on  the  vil- 
lage green.  Nearly  every  afternoon  a  ghost-wagon  used  to 
jolt  down  to  the  ship  with  a  lading  of  rum,  and  though  the 
older  ghosts  seemed  inclined  to  give  the  captain's  hospitality 
the  go-by,  the  youngsters  were  neither  to  hold  nor  to 
bind. 

So  one  afternoon  when  I  was  taking  my  nap,  I  heard  a 
knock  at  the  door,  and  there  was  parson,  looking  very  seri- 
ous, like  a  man  with  a  job  before  him  that  he  didn't  alto- 
gether relish. 

"I'm  going  down  to  talk  to  th£  captain  about  all  this 
drunkenness  in  the  village,  and  I  want  you  to  come  with 
me,"  he  said  straight  out. 

I  can't  say  that  I  fancied  the  visit  much  myself,  and  I 
tried  to  hint  to  parson  that  as,  after  all,  they  were  only  a 
lot  of  ghosts,  it  didn't  much  matter. 

"Dead  or  alive,  I'm  responsible  for  their  good  conduct," 
he  said,  "and  I'm  going  to  do  my  duty  and  put  a  stop  to 


THE  GHOST-SHIP  231 

this  continued  disorder.  And  you  are  coming  with  me,  John 
Simmons." 

So  I  went,  parson  being  a  persuasive  kind  of  man. 

We  went  down  to  the  ship,  and  as  we  approached  her,  I 
could  see  the  captain  tasting  the  air  on  deck.  When  he  saw 
parson  he  took  off  his  hat  very  politely,  and  I  can  tell  you 
that  I  was  relieved  to  find  that  he  had  a  proper  respect  for 
the  cloth.  Parson  acknowledged  his  salute,  and  spoke  out 
stoutly  enough. 

"Sir,  I  should  be  glad  to  have  a  word  with  you." 

"Come  on  board,  sir,  come  on  board,"  said  the  captain, 
and  I  could  tell  by  his  voice  that  he  knew  why  we  were 
there. 

Parson  and  I  climbed  up  an  uneasy  kind  of  ladder,  and 
the  captain  took  us  into  the  great  cabin  at  the  back  of  the 
ship,  where  the  bay-window  was.  It  was  the  most  won- 
derful place  you  ever  saw  in  your  life,  all  full  of  gold  and 
silver  plate,  swords  with  jewelled  scabbards,  carved  oak 
chairs,  and  great  chests  that  looked  as  though  they  were 
bursting  with  guineas.  Even  parson  was  surprised,  and  he 
did  not  shake  his  head  very  hard  when  captain  took  down 
some  silver  cups  and  poured  us  out  a  drink  of  rum.  I  tasted 
mine,  and  I  don't  mind  saying  that  it  changed  my  view  of 
things  entirely.  There  was  nothing  betwixt  and  between 
about  that  rum,  and  I  felt  that  it  was  ridiculous  to  blame 
the  lads  for  drinking  too  much  of  stuff  like  that.  It  seemed 
to  fill  my  veins  with  honey  and  fire. 

Parson  put  the  case  squarely  to  the  captain,  but  I  didn't 
listen  much  to  what  he  said.  I  was  busy  sipping  my  drink1 
and  looking  through  the  window  at  the  fishes  swimming  to 
and  fro  over  landlord's  turnips:  Just  then  it  seemed  the 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world  that  they  should  be  there, 
though  afterward,  of  course,  I  could  see  that  that  proved 
it  was  a  ghost-ship. 

But  even  then  I  thought  it  was  queer  when  I  saw  a 
drowned  sailor  float  by  in  the  thin  air,  with  his  hair  and 
beard  all  full  of  bubbles.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  seen 
anything  quite  like  that  at  Fairfield. 

All  the  time  I  was  regarding  the  wonders  of  the  deep,  par- 


232   THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

son  was  telling  Captain  Roberts  how  there  was  no  peace  or 
rest  in  the  village  owing  to  the  curse  of  drunkenness,  and 
what  a  bad  example  the  youngsters  were  setting  to  the  older 
ghosts.  The  captain  listened  very  attentively,  and  put  in  a 
word  only  now  and  then  about  boys  being  boys  and  young 
men  sowing  their  wild  oats.  But  when  parson  had  finished 
his  speech,  he  filled  up  our  silver  cups  and  said  to  parson 
with  a  flourish: 

"I  should  be  sorry  to  cause  trouble  anywhere  where  I 
have  been  made  welcome,  and  you  will  be  glad  to  hear  that 
I  put  to  sea  to-morrow  night.  And  now  you  must  drink  me 
a  prosperous  voyage." 

So  we  all  stood  up  and  drank  the  toast  with  honor,  and 
that  noble  rum  was  like  hot  oil  in  my  veins. 

After  that,  captain  showed  us  some  of  the  curiosities  he 
had  brought  back  from  foreign  parts,  and  we  were  greatly 
amazed,  though  afterward  I  couldn't  clearly  remember  what 
they  were.  And  then  I  found  myself  walking  across  the 
turnips  with  parson,  and  I  was  telling  him  of  the  glories 
of  the  deep  that  I  had  seen  through  the  window  of  the 
ship.  He  turned  on  me  severely. 

"If  I  were  you,  John  Simmons,"  he  said,  "I  should  go 
straight  home  to  bed."  He  has  a  way  of  putting  things  that 
wouldn't  occur  to  an  ordinary  man,  has  parson,  and  I  did 
as  he  told  me. 

Well,  next  day  it  came  on  to  blow,  and  it  blew  harder, 
and  harder  till  about  eight  o'clock  at  night  I  heard  a  noise 
and  looked  out  into  the  garden.  I  dare  say  you  wouldn't 
believe  me, — it  seems  a  bit  tall  even  to  me, — but  the  wind 
had  lifted  the  thatch  of  my  pigsty  into  the  widow's  garden  a 
second  time.  I  thought  I  wouldn't  wait  to  hear  what  widow 
had  to  say  about  it,  so  I  went  across  the  green  to  the  Fox 
and  Grapes,  and  the  wind  was  so  strong  that  I  danced  along 
on  tiptoe  like  a  girl  at  the  fair.  When  I  got  to  the  inn,  land- 
lord had  to  help  me  shut  the  door.  It  seemed  as  though  a 
dozen  goats  were  pushing  against  it  to  come  in  out  of  the 
storm. 

"It's  a  powerful  tempest,"  he  said,  drawing  the  beer. 
"I  hear  there's  a  chimney  down  at  Dickory  End." 


THE  GHOST-SHIP  233 

"It's  a  funny  thing  how  these  sailors  know  about  the 
weather,"  I  answered.  "When  the  captain  said  he  was  go- 
ing to-night,  I  was  thinking  it  would  take  a  capful  of  wind 
to  carry  the  ship  back  to  sea;  and  now  here's  more  than  a 
capful." 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  landlord;  "it's  to-night  he  goes  true 
enough,  and  mind  you,  though  he  treated  me  handsome  over 
the  rent,  I'm  not  sure  it's  a  loss  to  the  village.  I  don't  hold 
with  gentrice  who  fetch  their  drink  from  London  instead  of 
helping  local  traders  to  get  their  living." 

"But  you  haven't  got  any  rum  like  his,"  I  said,  to  draw 
him  out. 

His  neck  grew  red  above  his  collar,  and  I  was  afraid  I'd 
gone  too  far;  but  after  a  while  he  got  his  breath  with  a  grunt. 
"John  Simmons,"  he  said,  "if  you've  come  down  here  this 
windy  night  to  talk  a  lot  of  fool's  talk,  you've  wasted  a 
journey." 

Well,  of  course,  then  I  had  to  smooth  him  down  with 
praising  his  rum,  and  Heaven  forgive  me  for  swearing  it 
was  better  than  captain's.  For  the  like  of  that  rum  no  liv- 
ing lips  have  tasted  save  mine  and  parson's.  But  some- 
how or  other  I  brought  landlord  round,  and  presently  we 
must  have  a  glass  of  his  best  to  prove  its  quality. 

"Beat  that  if  you  can,"  he  cried,  and  we  both  raised  our 
glasses  to  our  mouths,  only  to  stop  half-way  and  look  at 
each  other  in  amaze.  For  the  wind  that  had  been  howling 
outside  like  an  outrageous  dog  had  all  of  a  sudden  turned 
as  melodious  as  the  carol-boys  of  a  Christmas  eve. 

"Surely  that's  not  my  Martha,"  whispered  landlord, 
Martha  being  his  great-aunt,  who  lived  in  the  loft  over- 
head. 

We  went  to  the  door,  and  the  wind  burst  it  open  so  that 
the  handle  was  driven  clean  into  the  plaster  wall,  but  we 
didn't  think  about  that  at  the  time;  for  over  our  heads, 
sailing  very  comfortably  through  the  windy  stars,  was  the 
ship  that  had  passed  the  summer  in  landlord's  field.  Her 
port-holes  and  her  bay-window  were  blazing  with  lights,  and 
there  was  a  noise  of  singing  and  fiddling  on  her  decks.  "He's 
gone!"  shouted  landlord  above  the  storm,  "and  he's  taken 


234  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

half  the  village  with  him."  I  could  only  nod  in  answer, 
not  having  lungs  like  bellows  of  leather. 

In  the  morning  we  were  able  to  measure  the  strength  of 
the  storm,  and  over  and  above  my  pigsty,  there  was  damage 
enough  wrought  in  the  village  to  keep  us  busy.  True  it  was 
that  the  children  had  to  break  down  no  branches  for  the 
firing  that  autumn,  since  the  wind  had  strewn  the  woods 
with  more  than  they  could  carry  away.  Many  of  our  ghosts 
were  scattered  abroad,  but  this  time  very  few  came  back, 
all  the  young  men  having  sailed  with  captain  jQnd  not  only 
ghosts,  for  a  poor  half-witted  lad  was  missing,  and  we  reck- 
oned that  he  had  stowed  himself  away  or  perhaps  shipped  as 
cabin-boy,  net  knowing  any  better. 

What  with  the  lamentations~of  the  ghost  girls  and  the 
grumblings  of  families  who  had  lost  ancestors,  the  village 
was  upset  for  awhile,  and  the  funny  thing  was  that  it  was 
the  folk  who  had  complained  most  of  the  carryings-on  of  the 
youngsters  who  made  most  noise  now  that  they  were  gone. 
I  hadn't  any  sympathy  with  shoemaker  or  butcher,  who 
ran  about  saying  how  much  they  missed  their  lads,  but  it 
made  me  grieve  to  hear  the  poor  bereaved  girls  calling  their 
lovers  by  name  on  the  village  green  at  nightfall.  It  didn't 
seem  fair  to  me  that  they  should  have  lost  their  men  a  sec- 
ond time,  after  giving  up  life  in  order  to  join  them,  as  like  as 
not.  Still,  not  even  a  spirit  can  be  sorry  for  ever,  and  after 
a  few  months  we  made  up  our  mind  that  the  folk  who  had 
sailed  in  the  ship  were  never  coming  back;  and  we  didn't 
talk  about  it  any  more. 

And  then  one  day,  I  dare  say  it  would  be  a  couple  of 
years  after,  when  the  whole  business  was  quite  forgotten, 
who  should  come  trapesing  along  the  road  from  Portsmouth 
but  the  daft  lad  who  had  gone  away  with  the  ship  without 
waiting  till  he  was  dead  to  become  a  ghost.  You  never  saw 
such  a  boy  as  that  in  all  your  life.  He  had  ?.  great  rusty 
cutlass  hanging  to  a  string  at  his  waist,  and  he  was  tattooed 
all  over  in-  fine  colours,  so  that  even  his  free  looked  like  a 
girl's  samnler.  He  had  a  handkerchief  in  his  hand  full  of 
foreign  shells  and  old-fashioned  pieces  of  ?mall  money,  very 
curious,  and  he  walked  up  to  the  well  outside  his  mother's 


THE  GHOST-SHIP  235 

house  and  drew  himself  a  drink  as  if  he  had  been  nowhere 
in  particular. 

The  worst  of  it  was  that  he  had  come  back  as  soft-headed 
as  he  went,  and  try  as  we  might,  we  couldn't  get  anything 
reasonable  out  of  him.  He  talked  a  lot  of  gibberish  about 
keelhauling  and  walking  the  plank  and  crimson  murders — 
things  which  a  decent  lad  should  know  nothing  about,  so 
that  it  seemed  to  me  that  for  all  his  manners  captain  had 
been  more  of  a  pirate  than  a  gentleman  mariner.  But  to 
draw  sense  out  of  that  boy  was  as  hard  as  picking  cherries 
off  a  crab-tree.  One  silly  tale  he  had  that  he  kept  on  drift- 
ing back  to,  and  to  hear  him  you  would  have  thought  that 
it  was  the  only  thing  that  happened  to  him  in  his  life. 

"We  was  at  anchor,"  he  would  say,  "off  an  island  called 
the  Basket  of  Flowers,  and  the  sailors  caught  a  lot  of  par- 
rots, and  we  were  teaching  them  to  swear.  Up  and  down 
the  decks,  up  and  down  the  decks,  and  the  language  they 
used  was  dreadful.  Then  we  looked  up  and  saw  the  masts 
of  the  Spanish  ship  outside  the  harbour.  Outside  the  har- 
bour they  were,  so  we  threw  the  parrots  in  the  sea,  and 
sailed  out  to  fight.  And  all  the  parrots  were  drowneded  in 
the  sea,  and  the  language  they  used  was  dreadful." 

That's  the  sort  of  a  boy  he  was — nothing  but  silly  talk  of 
parrots  when  we  asked  him  about*  the  fighting.     And  we   ; 
never  had  a  chance  of  teaching  him  better,  for  two  days 
after  he  ran  away  again,  and  hasn't  been  seen  since. 

That's  my  story,  and  I  assure  you  that  things  like  that 
are  happening  at  Fairfield  all  the  time.  The  ship  has  never 
come  back,  but  somehow,  as  people  grow  older,  they  seem 
to  think  that  one  of  these  windy  nights  she'll  come  sailing 
in  over  the  hedges  with  all  the  lost  ghosts  on  board.  Well, 
when  she  comes,  she'll  be  welcome.  There's  one  ghost  lass 
that  has  never  grown  tired  of  waiting  for  her  lad  to  return. 
Every  night  you'll  see  her  out  on  the  green,  straining  her 
poor  eyes  with  looking  for  the  mast-lights  among  the  stars. 
A  faithful  lass  you'd  call  her  and  I'm  thinking  you'd  be  right. 

Landlord's  field  wasn't  a  penny  the  worse  for  the  visit; 
but  they  do  say  that  since  then  the  turnips  that  have  been 
grown  in  it  have  tasted  of  rum. 


BUSINESS  IS  BUSINESS 

BY  "JOHN  TREVENA" 

TAVY  river  rises  on  Cranmere,  flows  down  Tavy  Cleave, 
divides  the  parish  of  Mary  Tavy  from  that  of  Peter 
Tavy,  passes  Tavy  Mount,  and  leaves  Dartmoor  at 
Tavystock,  or  Tavistock  as  it  is  now  spelt.  Each  Dartmoor 
river  confers  its  name,  or  a  portion  of  it,  upon  certain* 
features  of  its  own  district.  The  Okements  meet  at  Oke- 
hampton,  and  one  of  them  has  Oke  Tor,  which  has  been 
corrupted  into  Ock  and  even  Hock.  Even  the  tiny  Lyd  has 
its  Lydford.  Each  river  has  also  it  particular  characteristic. 
The  East  Okement  is  the  river  of  ferns,  the  Teign  the  river 
of  woods,  the  Taw  the  river  of  noise,  the  Dart  the  river  of 
silence,  and  the  Tavy  is  the  river  of  rocks.  Tavy  Cleave, 
from  the  top  of  Ger  Tor,  presents  a  grand  and  solemn  spec- 
tacle of  rock  masses  piled  one  upon  the  other;  it  is  a  valley 
of  rocks,  relieved  only  by  the  foaming  little  river. 

Mary  Tavy  is  a  straggling  village  of  unredeemed  ugliness, 
wild  and  bare.  It  lies  exposed  on  the  side  of  the  moor  and  is 
swept  by  every  wind,  for  not  a  bush  or  even  a  bramble  will 
be  found  upon  the  rounded  hills  adjoining.  Once  the  place 
was  a  mining  centre  of  some  importance.  The  black  moor 
has  been  torn  into  pits  and  covered  with  mounds  by  the  tin- 
streamers  in  early  days,  and  more  recently  by  the  copper- 
miners.  All  around  Mary  Tavy  appear  the  dismal  ruins  of 
these  mines,  or  wheals  as  they  are  called.  Peter  Tavy,  across 
the  river,  is  not  so  dreary,  but  is  equally  exposed.  This 
region  during  the  winter  is  one  of  the  most  inhospitable 
spots  to  be  found  in  England. 

In  Peter  Tavy  there  lived,  until  quite  recently,  an  elderly 
man,  who  might  have  posed  as  the  most  incompetent 
creature  in  the  West  Country.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say 

236 


BUSINESS  IS  BUSINESS  237 

he  did  not  do  so;  on  the  contrary,  he  posed  as  a  many- 
sided  genius.  He  occupied  a  hideous  little  tin  house,  which 
would  have  been  condemned  at  a  glance  in  those  parts  of 
the  country  where  building  by-laws  are  in  existence.  At 
one  time  and  another  he  had  borrowed  the  dregs  of  paint- 
pots,  and  had  endeavoured  to  decorate  the  exterior.  As  a 
result,  one  portion  was  black,  another  white,  and  another 
blue.  Over  the  door  a  board  appeared  setting  forth  the 
accomplishments  of  Peter  Tavy,  as  he  may  here  be  called. 
According  to  his  own  showing  he  was  a  clock-maker;  he 
was  a  photographer;  he  was  a  Dartmoor  guide;  he  was  a 
dealer  in  antiquities ;  he  was  a  Reeve  attached  to  the  Manor 
of  Lydford ;  and  he  was  a  purveyor  of  manure.  This  board 
was  in  its  way  a  masterpiece  of  fiction.  Once  upon  a  time 
a  resident,  anxious  to  put  Peter's  powers  to  the  test,  sent 
him  an  old  kitchen-clock  to  repair.  He  examined  it,  and 
gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  the  undertaking  would  require 
time.  When  a  year  had  passed  the  owner  of  the  clock  re- 
quested Peter  to  report  progress.  He  replied  that  the  work 
was  getting  on,  but  "  'Twas  a  slow  business  and  'twould  take 
another  six  months  to  make  a  job  of  it."  At  the  end  of  that 
period  the  clock  was  removed,  almost  by  force,  and  it  was 
then  discovered  that  Peter  had  sold  most  of  the  interior 
mechanism  to  a  singularly  innocent  tourist  as  Druidical  re- 
mains unearthed  by  him  in  one  of  the  shafts  of  Wheal  Betsy. 

As  a  photographer  he  carried  his  impudence  still  further. 
Some  one  had  given  him  an  old  camera  and  a  few  plates. 
He  began  at  once  to  inveigle  visitors — chiefly  elderly  ladies, 
"half-dafty  maidens"  he  impolitely  called  them — down 
Tavy  Cleave,  where  he  would  pose  them  on  rocks  and  pre- 
tend to  photograph  them  with  plates  which  had  already  been 
exposed  more  than  once.  "If  I  doan't  get  a  picture  first 
time,  I  goes  on  till  I  du,"  he  explained.  Once,  when  Peter 
announced  "  'twas  a  fine  picture  this  time,"  a  gentleman  of 
the  party  reminded  him  he  had  omitted  to  remove  the  cap 
from  the  lens.  Peter  was  not  to  be  caught  that  way:  "I 
took  'en,"  he  said,  "I  took  'en,  but  yew  warn't  looking." 

As  a  guide  upon  the  moor  Peter  was  an  equal  failure.  He 
ought  to  have  known  Dartmoor  after  living  upon  it  all  his 


238  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

life;  the  truth  was,  he  would  have  lost  his  way  up  on  the 
road  to  Tavistock  had  he  strayed  from  it  a  moment.  Visi- 
tors, lured  by  the  notice-board,  had  approached  him  from 
time  to  time  with  the  request  to  be  guided  to  Cranmere. 
Peter  would  take  them  along  Tavy  Cleave  for  a  mile,  then 
assure  them  a  storm  was  coming  up  and  it  would  be  neces- 
sary to  seek  shelter  as  soon  as  possible,  hurry  them  back, 
and  demand  half-a-guinea  in  return  for  his  services.  Peter 
had  never  been  to  Cranmere  Pool,  and  had  no  idea  how  to 
get  there.  Sometimes  a  party  would  insist  upon  proceeding, 
in  spite  of  the  guide's  warning,  and  in  such  cases  the  be- 
wildered Peter  would  have  to  be  shown  the  way  home  by 
his  victims.  He  would  demand  the  half-guinea  all  the 
same. 

As  a  dealer  in  antiquities  nothing  came  amiss.  Broken 
pipes,  bits  of  crockery,  old  mining-tools,  any  rubbish  rotting 
or  rusting  upon  the  peat  was  gathered  and  classified  as 
Druidical  remains.  No  one  knew  where  Peter  had  picked 
up  the  word  Druidical;  but  it  was  certain  he  picked  up 
their  supposed  remains  on  the  piece  of  black  moor  which 
surrounded  his  house.  Sometimes,  it  was  said,  he  found  a 
tourist  foolish  enough  to  purchase  a  selection  of  this  rub- 
bish. 

What  he  meant  by  describing  himself  as  an  official  re- 
ceiving pay  from  the  Duchy  of  Cornwall  nobody  ever  knew. 
As  a  Reeve  (another  word  he  had  picked  up  somewhere)  of 
the  Manor  of  Lydford  he  believed  himself  to  be  intimately 
connected  with  the  lord  of  that  manor,  who  is  the  Prince  of 
Wales.  He  knew  that  august  personage  was  interested  some- 
how in  three  feathers.  The  public-house  in  the  neighbour- 
hood called  THE  PLUME  OF  FEATHERS  had  something  to  do 
with  it  he  was  sure,  though  he  had  never  seen  "goosey's 
feathers  same  as  they  on  the  sign-board."  Once  he  thought 
seriously  of  erecting  three  feathers  above  his  own  door,  and 
for  that  purpose  captured  a  neighbour's  goose  and  plucked 
three  large  quills  from  one  of  its  wings,  accompanying  his 
action  with  the  bland  request,  "Now  bide  still,  goosey- 
gander,  do'  ye."  He  could  not  make  his  three  goose-quills 
graceful  and  drooping,  like  those  upon  the  signboard,  and 


BUSINESS  IS  BUSINESS  239 

that  was  probably  why  Peter  refrained  from  doing  the  Lord 
of  Dartmoor  the  compliment  of  assuming  his  crest. 

The  village  of  Peter  Tavy,  like  most  spots  upon  Dart- 
moor, has  its  summer  visitors ;  and  these  were  sure,  sooner  or 
later,  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  Peter  Tavy  the  man. 
They  thought  him  a  harmless  idiot,  and  he  reciprocated* 
One  summer  a  journalist  came  upon  the  moor  for  his  health 
and,  desiring  to  combine  business  with  pleasure,  he  wrote  a 
descriptive  sketch  of  Peter,  and  this  was  published  in  due 
course  in  a  paper  which  by  a  curious  accident  reached  Peter 
himself.  The  man  was  furious.  He  went  about  the  two 
villages  with  the  paper  in  his  hand,  his  scanty  hair  bristling, 
his  watery  eyes  bulging,  his  mouth  twisted  into  a  very  ugly 
shape.  It  was  a  good  thing  the  journalist  had  departed,  for 
just  then  Peter  was  angry  and  vindictive  enough  for  any- 
thing. Presently  he  met  his  clergyman;  he  made  towards 
him,  held  cut  the  paper,  and,  regardless  of  grammar,  cried 
out,  "That's  me." 

"He  does  not  mention  you  by  name,"  said  the  clergy-, 
man. 

"He  says  the  man  in  the  iron  house  wi'  notice-board  atop. 
He's  got  down  the  notice-board  as  'tis,"  spluttered  Peter, 
"He  says  a  ginger-headed  man — that's  me;  face  like  a  rab- 
bit— well,  that's  me." 

It  was  as  a  purveyor  of  manure  that  Peter  found  his  level, 
if  not  a  living.  Probably  he  received  financial  assistance 
from  his  sister,  who  lived  across  the  river  at  Mary  Tavy. 
She  had  been  formerly  a  lady's  maid  in  Torquay;  after 
more  than  thirty  years'  service  her  mistress  had  died,  and 
had  bequeathed  to  her  a  modest  income,  and  on  this  she 
lived  comfortably  in  retirement,  crossing  Tavy  Cleave  occa- 
sionally to  visit  her  eccentric  brother.  She,  too,  was  said  to 
be  eccentric,  but  that  was  only  because  she  was  fond  of  get- 
ting full  value  for  a.  halfpenny.  Mary  Tavy  was  a  spinster, 
and  Peter  Tavy  was  a  bachelor.  On  those  occasions  when 
some  ne'er-do-well  attempted  to  annex  Mary  and  her  in- 
come, the  good  woman's  eccentricity  had  revealed  itself  very 
strongly;  and  as  for  Peter,  his  own  sister  would  remark, 
"Women  never  could  abide  he." 


240  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

The  Tavies  always  passed  Christmas  together.  One  year 
Peter  would  go  across  and  stop  with  Mary  for  three  days; 
the  next,  Mary  would  come  across  and  stop  with  Peter 
for  three  days.  Their  rule  on  this  matter  was  fixed ;  the  visit 
never  extended  beyond  three  days,  and  Peter  would  not  have 
dreamed  of  going  across  to  Mary  if  it  were  the  turn  of  Mary 
to  come  across  to  him. 

Peter  had  a  little  cart  and  a  pony  to  draw  it.  How  he 
came  by  the  pony  nobody  knew,  but  as  it  was  never  identi- 
fied no  hard  questions  were  asked.  Every  year  a  few  Dart- 
moor ponies  are  missed  when  the  drift  takes  place;  and  at 
the  same  time  certain  individuals  take  to  owning  shaggy 
little  steeds  which  have  no  past  history.  When  a  brand  has 
;been  skilfully  removed,  one  Dartmoor  pony  is  very  much 
like  a  score  of  others.  To  drive  Peter  into  a  corner  over  his 
title  to  the  pony  which  pulled  his  shameful  little  cart — it 
was  hardly  better  than  a  packing-case  on  wheels — would 
have  been  impossible.  He  had  hinted  that  it  was  a  present 
from  the  Prince  of  Wales  as  a  slight  return  for  services  faith- 
fully rendered;  and  as  no  one  else  in  the  Tavy  district  was 
in  the  habit  of  communicating  with  the  lord  of  the  manor, 
his  statement  could  not  easily  be  refuted. 

With  this  pony  and  unlicensed  cart  Peter  would  convey 
people  from  time  to  time  to  the  station  at  Mary  Tavy,  mak- 
ing a  charge  of  eighteenpence,  which  was  not  exorbitant  con- 
sidering the  dangers  and  difficulties  of  the  road.  For  con- 
veying his  sister  from  her  home  to  his  at  Christmas  he  made 
a  charge  of  one  shilling;  when  she  expostulated,  as  she  al- 
ways did,  and  quoted  the  proverb  "Charity  begins  at  home," 
Peter  invariably  replied  with  another  proverb,  "Business  is 
business." 

Few  will  have  forgotten  the  winter  of  1881,  when  snow 
fell  for  over  a  week,  and  every  road  was  lost  and  every 
cleave  choked.  Snow  was  lurking  in  sheltered  nooks  upon 
the  tops  of  Ger  Tor  and  the  High  Willhays  range  as  late  as 
the  following  May.  Snow  upon  Dartmoor  does  not  always 
mean  snow  elsewhere.  It  is  possible  sometimes  to  stand 
knee-deep  upon  the  high  moor  and  look  down  upon  a  stretch 
of  country  without  a  flake  upon  it,  and  so  on  to  the  sugared 


BUSINESS  IS  BUSINESS  241 

and  frosted  hills  of  Exmoor;  but  no  part  of  the  country 
escaped  the  great  fall  of  1881.  Every  one  on  the  moor  can 
tell  of  some  incident  in  connection  with  that  Christmas.  At 
the  two  Tavies  they  tell  how  Peter  tried  to  drive  Mary 
from  his  village  to  hers,  how  he  failed  in  the  attempt,  and 
how  both  of  them  remained  good  business  people  to  the  end. 

It  was  Mary's  turn  to  visit  Peter  that  year,  and  she  ar- 
rived upon  Christmas  Eve,  quaintly  but  warmly  dressed,  a 
small  boy  carrying  her  basket,  which  contained  the  articles 
that  she  deemed  necessary  for  her  visit,  together  with  a 
bottle  of  spiced  wine,  some  cream  cakes,  and  a  plum-pud- 
ding as  big  as  her  head.  The  boy  said  a  good  many  un- 
complimentary things  about  that  pudding  as  they  climbed 
up  from  the  Tavy,  comparing  it  to  the  Giant's  Pebble  higher 
up  the  cleave.  When  Mary  raised  her  black-mittened  hand 
and  threatened  him  with  chastisement,  the  urchin  lifted 
out  the  pudding  in  its  cloth,  set  it  at  her  feet,  and  told  her 
to  carry  it  herself,  as  it  was  "enough  to  pinch  a  strong  man 
dragging  thikky  gurt  thing  up  the  cleave";  so  Mary  had  to 
finish  the  journey  hugging  the  pudding  like  a  baby.  She 
was  walking  to  save  herself  sixpence.  Peter  had  offered  to 
come  for  her  with  his  pony  and  cart,  the  charge  to  be  one 
shilling,  payable  as  follows — sixpence  when  she  got  into  the 
cart  and  sixpence  when  she  got  out;  but  she  had  told  him 
that  she  could  get  a  boy  to  carry  her  basket  for  half  that 
amount;  when  he  protested  she  reminded  him  that  business 
was  business. 

A  light  sprinkle  of  snow  had  fallen,  just  enough  to  dust 
over  the  rocks  and  furze-bushes;  but  it  was  very  cold,  the 
clouds  were  low  and  wool-like,  and  there  was  in  the  air  that 
feel  of  snow  which  animals  can  nearly  always  detect,  and 
men  who  live  on  the  moors  can  sometimes. 

Peter  and  Mary  spent  the  evening  in  simple  style.  Peter 
sat  on  one  side  of  the  fire,  Mary  on  the  other;  sometimes 
Peter  stirred  to  get  fresh  turves  for  the  fire;  sometimes  Mary 
got  up  to  heap  the  little  table  with  good  cheer  and  place  it 
|niidway  between  the  old-fashioned  chairs.  They  both 
smoked,  they  both  took  snuff,  they  both  drank  spiced  wine. 
Towards  evening  they  talked  of  old  times  and  became  merry. 


242  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

Then  they  talked  of  old  people  and  grew  sentimental,  drop- 
ping tears  into  their  hot  wine.  Peter  got  up  and  kissed 
Mary,  but  Mary  did  not  care  for  Peter's  caresses  and  told 
him  so,  whereupon  Peter  advised  her  to  "get  along  home 
then."  Mary  declared  she  would,  but  changed  her  mind 
when  she  thought  of  the  gloomy  cleave  and  the  Tavy  in 
winter  flood;  so  they  went  on  smoking,  taking  snuff,  and 
drinking  spiced  wine. 

The  next  day  was  fine,  and  Peter  and  Mary  went  to 
chapel.  Mary  gave  her  brother  a  penny  to  put  into  the 
plate,  but  he  put  it  into  his  pocket  instead;  he  was  always 
a  man  of  business.  She  also  gave  him  a  bright  new  florin 
as  a  Christmas  present.  He  had  made  her  understand, 
when  the  coin  was  safe  in  his  possession,  that  he  should  still 
demand  a  shilling  for  driving  her  home,  and  over  that  point 
they  wrangled  for  some  time.  In  the  evening,  when  Peter 
had  fallen  asleep  over  the  fire,  Mary  repented  of  her  kind- 
ness and  sought  to  regain  the  florin;  but  Peter  had  it  hidden 
away  safely  in  his  boot. 

When  the  time  came  for  Mary  to  start  homewards  it  was 
snowing  fast,  and  she  did  not  like  the  prospect.  Although 
it  was  not  much  after  three  o'clock,  the  outlook  was  ex- 
ceedingly dark;  there  was  an  unpleasant  silence  upon  the 
moor,  and  the  snowflakes  were  larger  and  falling  thickly. 
But  the  pony  was  harnessed  to  the  unsteady  conveyance, 
and  Peter  was  waiting;  before  Mary  could  utter  a  word  of 
protest,  he  had  bundled  her  in  and  they  were  off. 

"  'Twould  have  paid  me  better  to  bide  home,"  said 
Mary. 

"Do'ye  sit  quiet,"  Peter  growled.  Then  he  added, 
"Where's  the  shillun?" 

"There  now,  doan't  ye  worry  about  the  shillun,"  said 
Mary;  "I'll  give  it  ye  when  I'm  safe  and  sound  to  home  wi' 
no  bones  broke." 

"Shillun  be  poor  pay  vor  driving  this  weather,"  said  her 
avaricious  brother. 

Now  and  again  a  light  appeared  from  one  of  the  cottages. 
The  pony  struggled  on  with  its  head  down,  while  the  silence 
seemed  to  grow  more  unearthly,  and  the  darkness  increased, 


BUSINESS  IS  BUSINESS  243 

and  the  snow  became  a  solid  descending  mass.  The  road 
between  the  two  Tavies  is  not  easy  in.  winter  under  favour- 
able conditions,  and  on  that  night  it  was  to  become  prac- 
tically impassable.  When  the  last  light  of  Peter  Tavy  the 
village  had  vanished,  Peter  Tavy  the  man  had  about  as  much 
idea  where  he  was  as  if  he  had  just  dropped  out  of  the 
moon. 

"Where  be'st  going?"  shrieked  Mary,  as  the  cart  swerved 
violently  to  the  right. 

"Taking  a  short  cut,"  explained  Peter. 

"Dear  life!"  gasped  Mary,  "he'm  pixy-led." 

"I  b'ain't,"  said  Peter;  "I  be  driving  straight  vor  Mary 
Tavy." 

Had  he  said  straight  for  the  edge  of  Tavy  Cleave  he 
would  have  spoken  the  truth.  The  pony  knew  perfectly 
well  that  they  were  off  the  road,  and  the  sensible  beast 
would  have  returned  to  the  right  way  had  it  not  been  for 
Peter,  who  kept  pulling  its  head  round  towards  the  cleave. 
Left  to  itself  the  pony  would  have  returned  to  Peter  Tavy, 
having  quite  enough  sense  to  know  that  it  was  impossible 
to  reach  the  sister  village  on  such  a  night.  Its  master,  with 
his  fatal  knack  of  blundering,  tugged  at  the  reins  with  one 
hand  and  plied  his  whip  with  the  other.  The  snow  was 
like  a  wall  on  every  side ;  the  clouds  seemed  to  be  dissolving 
upon  them ;  suddenly  the  silence  was  broken  by  the  roaring 
of  the  Tavy  below. 

"Us  be  going  to  kingdom  come,"  shrieked  Mary. 

"Us  b'ain't,"  said  Peter;  "us  be  going  to  Mary  Tavy." 

The  pony  stopped.  Peter  used  his  whip,  and  the  next 
instant  the  snow  appeared  to  rush  towards  them,  open,  and 
swallow  them  UD.  They  had  struck  a  boulder  and  gone  over 
the  cleave.  The  body  of  the  cart  was  in  one  spot,  its  wheels 
were  in  another;  and  wallowing  in  that  sea  of  snow  were 
Peter  and  Mary  and  the  pony.  The  animal  was  the  first  to 
regain  its  feet,  and  made  off  at  once,  with  the  broken  harness 
trailing  behind.  Mary  was  the  next  to  rise,  plastered  over 
with  snow  from  head  to  foot;  but  she  was  soon  down  again, 
because  her  legs  refused  to  support  her.  Presently  she  heard 
her  brother's  voice.  He  was  invisible,  because  he  had  been 


244  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

thrown  several  feet  lower,  and  had  landed  among  rocks 
somewhat  bruised  and  sprained ;  had  it  not  been  for  the  soft 
snow  he  would  probably  have  been  killed. 

"I  be  broke  to  bits,"  he  wailed. 

"So  be  I,"  cried  Mary;  "so  be  the  cart." 

"Be  the  cart  broke?"  said  Peter;  and  when  Mary  had 
replied  it  was  only  fit  for  firewood  (it  had  not  been  fit  for 
much  else  before  the  accident),  he  went  on,  "  'Twill  cost  ye 
a  lot  o'  money  to  buy  me  a  new  one." 

"Buy  ye  a  new  one?  The  man  be  dafty!"  screamed 
Mary. 

c  'Twas  taking  yew  home  what  broke  it,"  Peter  explained. 

"Call  this  taking  me  home?"  Mary  shouted. 

"I  done  my  best,"  said  Peter;  "  'twas  your  weight  what 
sent  it  over.  There'll  be  the  cart,  and  the  harness,  and  doc- 
tor's bill;  'twill  cost  ye  a  heap  o'  money." 

"Dear  life,  hear  the  man  talk!"  said  Mary,  appealing  to 
the  snow  which  was  piled  upon  her  ample  form. 

"Maybe  there'll  be  funeral  expenses,"  said  Peter  lugu- 
briously; "I  be  hurt  dreadful." 

"Yew  wun't  want  the  cart  then,"  his  sister  muttered; 
"and  I'll  have  the  pony." 

"Where  be  the  pony?"  Peter  demanded. 

"Gone  home  likely;  got  more  sense  than  we,"  said  Mary. 
"Why  doan't  ye  get  up,  Peter?" 

"Get  up  wi'  my  two  legs  broke!"  Peter  replied  in  dis- 
gust. 

"Dear  life,  man,  get  up!"  Mary  went  on,  with  real  alarm. 
"If  us  doan't  get  up  soon  us'll  be  stone  dead  carpses  when 
us  gets  home." 

"I'll  try,  Mary,  I'll  try,"  said  Peter. 

"Come  up  here,  Peter;  there  be  a  lew  spot  over  agin  them 
rocks,"  said  Mary. 

"There  be  a  lew  spot  down  here,"  Peter  answered;  "  'tis 
easier  vor  yew  to  roll  down  than  vor  me  to  climb  up." 

When  that  question  had  been  argued,  Mary  went  down; 
that  is  to  say,  she  groped  and  grovelled  through  the  snow, 
half-rolling,  half-sliding,  until  she  reached  the  sheltered  spot 
to  which  Peter  had  dragged  himself.  It  was  a  small  cleft, 


BUSINESS  IS  BUSINESS  245 

a  chimney,  mountaineers  would  have  called  it,  in  the  centra 
of  a  rock-mass  which  made  a  small  tor  on  the  side  of  the 
cleave.  Normally,  this  chimney  acted  as  a  drain  for  the 
rock-basin  above,  but  it  was  then  frozen  up  and  dry.  Peter 
was  right  at  the  back,  huddled  up  as  he  could  never  have 
been  had  any  bones  been  broken.  When  Mary  appeared 
he  dragged  her  in;  she  was  almost  too  stout  to  pass  inside, 
but  as  he  placed  her  she  made  an  excellent  protection  for 
him  against  the  storm.  Mary  realised  this,  and  suggested 
they  should  change  places;  but  Peter  pointed  out  that  in  his 
shattered  condition  any  movement  might  easily  prove  fatal. 

Presently  Mary  began  to  cry,  realising  the  gravity  of, 
their  position.  The  snow  was  descending  more  thickly  than 
ever,  drifting  up  the  side  of  the  cleave  and  choking  the  en- 
trance to  their  cleft.  Fortunately  the  night  was  not  very 
cold,  and  they  were  both  warmly  clad,  while  the  snow  which 
was  threatening  to  bury  them  was  itself  a  protection.  Help 
could  not  possibly  reach  them  while  the  night  lasted ;  no  one 
would  know  what  had  befallen  them,  and  they  were  unable 
to  walk.  When  Mary  began  to  cry  Peter  abused  her,  until 
his  thoughts  began  also  to  trouble  him. 

"Think  they'll  put  what's  on  my  notice-board  on  my 
tombstone?"  he  enquired. 

"Now  doan't  ye  talk  about  tombstoanes,  doan't  ye  now," 
implored  Mary  tearfully. 

"Business  is  business,"  said  Peter.  "I  told  'em  to  give 
me  a  gurt  big  tombstone,  and  to  put  upon  him,  Peter  Tavy, 
Clock-maker,  Photographer,  Dealer  in  Antiquities,  Dart- 
moor Guide,  Reeve  of  the  Manor  of  Lydjord,  Purveyor  of 
Manure,  and  et  cetera" 

"Doan't  ye  worry  about  it;  they'll  put  it  all  down,"  said 
Mary. 

"Us'll  be  buried  together,  same  afternoon,  half-past  two 
likely,"  Peter  went  on. 

"Doan't  ye  talk  about  funerals  and  tombstoanes,"  Mary 
implored.  "Talk  about  spicy  wine,  and  goosey  fair,  and 
them  wooden  horses  what  go  round  and  round,  and  hurdy- 
gurdy  music;  talk  about  they,  Peter." 

"It  ain't  the  time,"  said  Peter  bitterly. 


246  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

A  long  dreary  period  of  silence  followed.  Peter  Tavy 
the  village  and  Mary  Tavy  its  sister  were  completely  snowed 
up;  and  in  the  cleave  of  the  river  which  divided  the  parishes 
Peter  Tavy  the  man  was  snowed  up  with  Mary  Tavy  his  sis- 
ter. They  were  miserably  cold  and  drowsy.  The  snow 
was  piled  up  in  front  of  the  chimney  like  a  wall ;  there  was 
hardly  room  for  Mary  to  move,  and  Peter  kept  on  groaning. 
At  length  he  roused  himself  to  remark:  "Yew  owes  me  a 
shillun." 

"What  would  I  owe  ye  a  shillun  vor?"  said  Mary  sharply, 
wideawake  immediately  at  any  suggestion  of  parting  with 
money. 

"Vor  the  drive,"  said  Peter. 

"I  was  to  give  ye  a  shillun  vor  taking  me  home,  not  vor 
breaking  me  bones  and  leaving  me  to  perish  in  Tavy  Cleave," 
said  Mary.  "Yew  ain't  earned  the  shillun,  and  I  doan't  see 
how  yew'm  going  to." 

"Yew  owes  me  a  shillun,"  repeated  her  brother  doggedly. 
"I  done  my  best  to  tak'  ye  home,  and  there  was  naught 
in  your  agreement  wi'  me  about  accidents.  I  never  con- 
tracted to  tak'  ye  home  neither." 

"Yew  never  promised  to  starve  me  wi'  ice  and  snow  on 
Tavy  Cleave  neither,"  replied  Mary. 

"I  didn't  promise  nothing.  I  meant  to  tak'  ye  home, 
reasonable  wear  and  tear  excepted;  this  here  is  reasonable 
wear  and  tear.  Yew  promised  to  give  me  a  shillun." 

"When  yew  put  me  down,"  added  Mary. 

"Yew  wur  put  down,"  said  Peter. 

"Not  to  my  door," 

"That  warn't  my  fault,"  said  Peter.  "  Twas  your  wor- 
riting what  done  it;  if  yew  hadn't  worrited  I'd  have  put  ye 
out  to  Mary  Tavy.  Yew  worrited  and  upset  the  cart,  and 
now  we'm  dying." 

"I  b'ain't  dying,"  said  Mary  stoutly. 

"I  be,"  said  Peter  drearily.  "I  be  all  cold  and  nohow 
inside.  I  be  a  going  to  die;  I'd  like  to  die  wi'  that  shillun 
in  my  pocket." 

"Doan't  ye  go  on  about  it,  Peter.  If  yew'm  dying  yew'll 
soon  be  in  a  place  where  yew  wun't  want  shilluns." 


BUSINESS  IS  BUSINESS  247 

"While  I  be  here  I  want  Jen,"  said  Peter.  "Yewll  be 
fearful  sorry  when  yew  see  me  lying  a  cold  carpse  wi'out  a 
shillun  in  my  pocket." 

"Give  over,  can't  ye,"  cried  Mary.  "You'll  be  giving 
me  the  creepies.  If  yew  wur  to  turn  carpsy  I  wouldn't  bide 
wi'  ye." 

There  was  no  reply.  Silence  fell  again,  and  the  only 
sound  was  the  moaning  of  the  wind  and  the  roaring  of  the 
Tavy;  the  snow  went  on  falling  and  drifting.  Another 
hour  passed,  and  then  Mary  shook  off  her  drowsiness,  and 
called  timidly,  "Peter."  There  was  no  answer;  she  could 
see  nothing;  her  fear  returned  and  she  shuddered.  "Peter," 
she  called  again;  there  was  still  no  reply.  Mary  pressed 
her  stout  figure  forward  and  reached  out  fearfully ;  she  heard 
a  groan.  "Ah,  doan't  ye  die,"  she  implored;  "wait  till  us 
gets  out  o'  this.  What's  the  matter,  Peter?" 

"Yew  owes  me  a  shillun,"  whispered  a  voice. 

"I  doan't  owe  it,  Peter,  I  doan't,"  cried  Mary  pitifully. 
"If  yew  had  drove  me  across  the  Tavy  I'd  have  paid  ye,  I 
would;  but  us  be  still  in  the  parish  of  Peter  Tavy ' 

She  was  interrupted  by  another  and  a  deeper  groan.  "Be 
yew  that  bad?"  she  asked  earnestly. 

"I  be  like  an  old  clock  past  mending,"  Peter  answered, 
"like  old  George  Routleigh  in  Lydford  churchyard.  My  main- 
spring be  broke;  I  be  about  to  depart  this  life,  December 
the  twenty-seventh,  eighteen  hundred  and  eighty-one,  aged 
fifty-eight,  in  hopes  of  being  thoroughly  cleaned  and  re- 
paired and  set  a  going  in  the  world  to  come." 

"Can  I  du  anything  vor  ye,  Peter?"  asked  Mary  gently. 

"Yew  can  give  me  the  shillun  yew  owes  me,"  replied 
Peter. 

"  'Tis  hard  of  ye  to  want  a  shillun  if  yew'm  dying." 

"Business  is  business,"  Peter  moaned. 

Fumbling  in  the  little  black  bag  she  carried  beneath  her 
skirt,  Mary  produced  a  coin  and  held  it  out,  saying  sadly: 
"Here  "tis,  Peter;  I  doan't  want  to  give  it  ye,  but  if  'twill 
make  yew  die  happy,  I  must." 

With  singular  agility  Peter  reached  out  his  hand,  and 
after  groping  a  little  in  the  darkness  secured  the  precious 


248  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

coin.  He  felt  it,  he  bit  it,  and  he  asked  with  suspicion: 
"How  be  I  to  know  'tis  a  shillun?  He  tastes  like  a  half- 
penny." 

"I  know  'tis  a  shillun;  I  ain't  got  no  halfpence,"  Mary 
answered. 

Peter's  groans  ceased  from  that  moment;  he  pocketed  the 
coin  and  chuckled. 

"I  be  a  lot  better,"  he  said;  "my  legs  b'ain't  quite  broke, 
I  reckon,  and  I  ain't  so  cold  inside,  neither." 

Mary's  reply  was  too  eccentric  to  mention. 

So  soon  as  it  was  day  a  party  of  villagers  set  out  from 
Peter  Tavy  well  supplied  with  blankets  and  stimulants; 
Peter  and  Mary  were  not  the  only  ones  missing  that  fateful 
morning.  The  pony  had  returned  to  its  stable  the  evening 
before,  and  had  been  seen  by  the  local  constable  trailing  its 
broken  harness  past  the  beer-house.  An  attempt  had  been 
made  to  find  the  couple  then,  but  their  tracks  were  com- 
pletely hidden.  Snow  was  still  descending  as  the  relief 
party  waded  through  the  drifts  upon  the  edge  of  the  cleave. 
The  moor  had  disappeared  during  the  night,  and  a  strange 
region  of  white  mountains  had  risen  in  its  stead.  The 
searchers  worked  their  way  on,  with  a  hopeless  feeling  that 
they  were  only  wasting  their  time,  when  they  thought  they 
heard  a  whistle.  They  stopped  and  argued  the  matter  like 
the  three  jolly  huntsmen;  one  said  it  was  a  man,  another 
said  it  was  a  bird,  and  another  it  was  the  wind.  They  were 
all  wrong;  it  was  a  woman.  Out  of  the  centre  of  a  huge 
white  mass  down  the  cleave  appeared  a  black  scarf  tied  to 
the  end  of  an  umbrella. 

Peter  and  Mary  were  rescued,  not  without  difficulty,  be- 
cause the  snow  was  four  feet  in  depth  on  the  side  of  the 
cleave,  and  were  conveyed  in  due  course  to  their  respective 
villages.  Being  a  hardy  couple  they  were  little  the  worse 
for  their  adventure,  although  Peter  posed  as  an  invalid  to 
the  end  of  his  days,  and  sought  parish  relief  in  consequence; 
that  was  simply  a  matter  of  business. 

So  soon  as  the  roads  were  passable  and  he  was  able  to 
walk,  Peter  tramped  across  to  Mary  Tavy,  to  pay  his  sister 
a  friendly,  and  a  business,  visit.  "There  be  ten  shilluns 


BUSINESS  IS  BUSINESS  249 

yew  owes  vor  breaking  my  cart  and  harness,"  he  explained. 
"When  be  yew  a  going  to  pay?" 

"Never,"  replied  Mary  decidedly. 

"Then  I'll  tak'  ye  into  court,"  said  Peter. 


THE  CHINK  AND  THE  CHILD1 

BY  THOMAS  BURKE 

IT  is  a  tale  of  love  and  lovers  that  they  tell  in  the  low- 
lit  Causeway  that  slinks  from  West  India  Dock  Road 
to  the  dark  waste  of  waters  beyond.  In  Penny  fields, 
too,  you  may  hear  it;  and  I  do  not  doubt  that  it  is  told  in 
far-away  Tai-Ping,  in  Singapore,  in  Tokio,  in  Shanghai, 
and  those  other  gay-lamped  haunts  of  wonder  whither  the 
wandering  people  of  Limehouse  go  and  whence  they  re- 
turn so  casually.  It  is  a  tale  for  tears,  and  should  you  hear 
it  in  the  lilied  tongue  of  the  yellow  men,  it  would  awaken 
in  you  all  your  pity.  In  our  bald  speech  it  must,  unhap- 
pily, lose  its  essential  fragrance,  that  quality  that  will  lift 
an  affair  of  squalor  into  the  loftier  spheres  of  passion  and 
imagination,  beauty  and  sorrow.  It  will  sound  uncon- 
vincing, a  little  .  .  .  you  know  ...  the  kind  of  thing  that 
is  best  forgotten.  Perhaps  .  .  . 

But  listen. 

It  is  Battling  Burrows,  the  lightning  welterweight  of 
Shadwell,  the  box  o'  tricks,  the  Tetrarch  of  the  ring,  who 
enters  first.  Battling  Burrows,  the  pride  of  Ratcliff,  Poplar 
and  Limehouse,  and  the  despair  of  his  manager  and  backers. 
For  he  loved  wine,  woman  and  song;  and  the  boxing  world 
held  that  he  couldn't  last  long  on  that.  There  was  any 
amount  of  money  in  him  for  his  parasites  if  only  the 
damned  women  could  be  cut  out;  but  again  and  again  would 
he  disappear  from  his  training  quarters  on  the  eve  of  a 
big  fight,  to  consort  with  Molly  and  Dolly,  and  to  drink 
other  things  than  barley-water  and  lemon-juice.  Where- 

1  From  "Limehouse  Nights."  By  permission  of  Robert  M. 
McBride  and  Company,  and  Thomas  Burke. 

250 


THE  CHINK  AND  THE  CHILD  251 

fore  Chuck  Lightfoot,  his  manager,  forced  him  to  fight  on 
any  and  every  occasion  while  he  was  good  and  a  money- 
maker; for  at  any  moment  the  collapse  might  come,  and 
Chuck  would  be  called  upon  by  his  creditors  to  strip  off  that 
"shirt"  which  at  every  contest  he  laid  upon  his  man. 

Battling  was  of  a  type  that  is  too  common  in  the  eastern 
districts  of  London;  a  type  that  upsets  all  accepted  classi- 
fications. He  wouldn't  be  classed.  He  was  a  curious  mix- 
ture of  athleticism  and  degeneracy.  He  could  run  like  a 
deer,  leap  like  a  greyhound,  fight  like  a  machine,  and  drink 
like  a  suction-hose.  He  was  a  bully;  he  had  the  courage 
of  the  high  hero.  He  was  an  open-air  sport;  he  had  the 
vices  of  a  French  decadent. 

It  was  one  of  his  love  adventures  that  properly  begins 
this  tale;  for  the  girl  had  come  to  Battling  one  night  with 
a  recital  of  terrible  happenings,  of  an  angered  parent,  of  a 
slammed  door.  ...  In  her  arms  was  a  bundle  of  white 
rags.  Now  Battling,  like  so  many  sensualists,  was  also  a 
sentimentalist.  He  took  that  bundle  of  white  rags;  he 
paid 'the  girl  money  to  get  into  the  country;  and  the  bundle 
of  white  rags  had  existed  in  and  about  his  domicile  in 
Pekin  Street,  Lirnehouse,  for  some  eleven  years.  Her  position 
was  nondescript;  to  the  casual  observer  it  would  seem  that 
she  was  Battling's  relief  punch-ball — an  unpleasant  post  for 
any  human  creature  to  occupy,  especially  if  you  are  a  little 
girl  of  tv/clve,  and  the  place  be  the  one-room  household 
of  the  lightning  welter-weight.  When  Battling  was  cross 
with  his  manager  .  .  .  well,  it  is  indefensible  to  strike 
your  manager  or  to  throw  chairs  at  him,  if  he  is  a  good 
manager;  but  to  use  a  dog- whip  on  a  small  child  is  per- 
missible and  quite  as  satisfying;  at  least,  he  found  it  so. 
On  these  occasions,  then,  when  very  cross  with  his  sparring 
partners,  or  over-flushed  with  victory  and  juice  of  the 
grape,  he  would  flog  Lucy.  But  he  was  reputed  by  the 
boys  to  be  a  good  fellow.  He  only  whipped  the  child  when 
he  was  drunk;  and  he  was  only  drunk  for  eight  months  of 
the  year. 

For  just  over  twelve  years  this  bruised  little  body  had 
crept  about  Poplar  and  Limehouse.  Always  the  white 


252   THE  GREAT  MODERN.  ENGLISH  STORIES 

face  was  scarred  with  red,  or  black-furrowed  with  tears; 
always'  in  her  steps  and  in  her  look  was  expectation  of 
dread  things.  Night  after  night  her  sleep  was  broken  by 
the  cheerful  Battling's  brute  voice  and  violent  hands;  and 
terrible  were  the  lessons  which  life  taught  her  in  those  few 
years.  Yet,  for  all  the  starved  face  and  the  transfixed  air, 
there  was  a  lurking  beauty  about  her,  a  something  that 
called  you  in  the  soft  curve  of  her  cheek  that  cried  for 
kisses  and  was  fed  with  blows,  and  in  the  splendid  mourn- 
fulness  that  grew  in  eyes  and  lips.  The  brown  hair  chimed 
against  the  pale  face,  like  the  rounding  of  a  verse.  The 
blue  cotton  frock  and  the  broken  shoes  could  not  break 
the  loveliness  of  her  slender  figure  or  the  shy  grace  of  her 
movements  as  she  flitted  about  the  squalid  alleys  of  the 
docks;  though  in  all  that  region  of  wasted  life  and  toil  and 
decay,  there  was  not  one  that  noticed  her,  until  .  .  . 

Now  there  lived  in  Chinatown,  in  one  lousy  room  over 
Mr.  Tai  Fu's  store  in  Penny  fields,  a  wandering  yellow 
man,  named  Cheng  Huan.  Cheng  Huan  was  ,a  poet.  He 
did  not  realise  it.  He  had  never  been  able  to  understand 
why  he  was  unpopular;  and  he  died  without  knowing.  But 
a  poet  he  was,  tinged  with  the  materialism  of  his  race,  and 
in  his  poor  listening  heart  strange  echoes  would  awake  of 
which  he  himself  was  barely  conscious.  He  regarded  things 
differently  from  other  sailors;  he  felt  things  more  passion- 
ately, and  things  which  they  felt  not  at  all;  so  he  lived 
alone  instead  of  at  one  of  the  lodging-houses.  Every  eve- 
ning he  would  sit  at  his  window  and  watch  the  street. 
Then,  a  little  later,  he  would  take  a  jolt  of  opium  at  the 
place  at  the  corner  of  Formosa  Street. 

He  had  come  to  London  by  devious  ways.  He  had 
loafed  on  the  Bund  at  Shanghai.  The  fateful  interven- 
tion of  a  crimp  had  landed  him  on  a  boat.  He  got  to 
Cardiff,  and  sojourned  in  its  Chinatown;  thence  to  Liver- 
pool, to  Glasgow;  thence,  by  a  ticket  from  the  Asiatics'  Aid 
Society,  to  Limehouse,  where  he  remained  for  two  reasons 
— because  it  cost  him  nothing  to  live  there,  and  because 
he  was  too  lazy  to  find  a  boat  to  take  him  back  to  Shang- 
hai. 


THE  CHINK  AND  THE  CHILD  253 

So  he  would  lounge  and  smoke  cheap  cigarettes,  and  sit 
at  his  window,  from  which  point  he  had  many  times  ob- 
served the  lyrical  Lucy.  He  noticed  her  casually.  An- 
other day,  he  pbserved  her,  not  casually.  Later,  he  looked 
long  at  her;  later  still,  he  began  to  watch  for  her  and  for 
that  strangely  provocative  something  about  .the  toss  of  the 
head  and  the  hang  of  the  little  blue  skirt  as  it  coyly  kissed 
her  knee. 

Then  that  beauty  which  all  Limehouse  had  missed  smote 
Cheng.  Straight  to  his  heart  it  went,  and  cried  itself  into 
his  very  blood.  Thereafter  the  spirit  of  poetry  broke  her 
blossoms  all  about  his  odorous  chamber.  Nothing  was 
the  same.  Pennyfields  became  a  happy-lanterned  street, 
and  the  monotonous  fiddle  in  the  house  opposite  was  the 
music  of  his  fathers.  Bits  of  old  song  floated  through  his 
mind:  little  sweet  verses  of  Le  Tai-pih,  murmuring  of 
plum  blossom,  ricefield  and  stream.  Day  by  day  he  would 
moon  at  his  window,  or  shuffle  about  the  streets,  lighting 
to  a  flame  when  Lucy  would  pass  and  gravely  return  his 
quiet  regard ;  and  night  after  night,  too,  he  would  dream  of 
a  pale,  lily-lovely  child. 

And  now  the  Fates  moved  swiftly  various  pieces  on  their 
sinister  board,  and  all  that  followed  happened  with  a  speed 
and  precision  that  showed  direction  from  higher  ways. 

It  was  Wednesday  night  in  Limehouse,  and  for  once  clear 
of  mist.  Out  of  the  coloured  darkness  of  the  Causeway 
stole  the  muffled  wail  of  reed  instruments,  and,  though 
every  window  was  closely  shuttered,  between  the  joints  shot 
jets  of  light  and  stealthy  voices  and  you  could  hear  the 
whisper  of  slippered  feet,  and  the  stuttering  steps  of  the 
satyr  and  the  sadist.  It  was  to  the  cafe  in  the  middle  of 
the  Causeway,  lit  by  the  pallid  blue  light  that  is  the 
symbol  of  China  throughout  the  world,  that  Cheng  Huan 
came,  to  take  a  dish  of  noodle  and  some  tea.  Thence  he 
moved  to  another  house  whose  stairs  ran  straight  to  the 
street,  and  above  whose  doorway  a  lamp  glowed  like  an 
evil  eye.  At  this  establishment  he  mostly  took  his  pipe 
of  "chandu"  and  a  brief  chat  with  the  keeper  of  the  house, 
for,  although  not  popular,  and  very  silent,  he  liked  some- 


254  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

times  to  be  in  the  presence  of  his  compatriots.  Like  a 
figure  of  a  shadowgraph  he  slid  through  the  door  and  up 
the  stairs. 

The  chamber  he  entered  was  a  bit  of  the  Orient  squatting 
at  the  portals  of  the  West.  It  was  a  well-kept  place  where 
one  might  play  a  game  of  fan-tan,  or  take  a  shot  or  so  of 
li-un,  or  purchase  other  varieties  of  Oriental  delight.  It 
was  sunk  in  a  purple  dusk,  though  here  and  there  a  lan- 
tern stung  the  glooms.  Low  couches  lay  around  the  walls, 
and  strange  men  decorated  them:  Chinese,  Japs,  Malays, 
Lascars,  with  one  or  two  white  girls;  and  sleek,  noiseless 
attendants  swam  from  couch  to  couch.  Away  in  the  far 
corner  sprawled  a  lank  figure  in  brown  shirting,  its  nerve- 
less fingers  curled  about  the  stem  of  a  spent  pipe.  On 
one  of  the  lounges  a  scorbutic  nigger  sat  with  a  Jewess  from 
Shadwell.  Squatting  on  a  table  in  the  centre,  beneath 
one  of  the  lanterns,  was  a  musician  with  a  reed,  blinking 
upon  the  company  like  a  sly  cat,  and  making  his  melody 
of  six  repeated  notes. 

The  atmosphere  churned.  The  dirt  of  years,  tobacco  of 
many  growings,  opium,  betel  nut,  and  moist'  flesh  allied 
themselves  in  one  grand  assault  against  the  nostrils. 

As  Cheng  brooded  on  his  insect-ridden  cushion,  of  a 
sudden  the  lantern  above  the  musician  was  caught  by  the 
ribbon  of  his  reed.  It  danced  and  flung  a  hazy  radiance 
on  a  divan  in  the  shadow.  He  saw — started — half  rose.  His 
heart  galloped,  and  the  blood  pounded  in  his  quiet  veins. 
Then  he  dropped  again,  crouched,  and  stared. 

O  lily-flowers  and  plum  blossoms!  O  silver  streams  and 
dim-starred  skies!  O  wine  and  roses,  song  and  laughter! 
For  there,  kneeling  on  a  mass  of  rugs,  mazed  and  big- 
eyed,  but  understanding,  was  Lucy  .  .  .  his  Lucy  .  .  .  his 
little  maid.  Through  the  dusk  she  must  have  felt  his  in- 
tent gaze  upon  her;  for  he  crouched  there,  fascinated,  star- 
ing into  the  now  obscured  corner  where  she  knelt. 

But  the  sickness  which  momentarily  gripped  him  on  find- 
ing in  this  place  his  snowy-breasted  pearl  passed  and  gave 
place  to  great  joy.  She  was  here;  he  would  talk  with  her. 
Little  English  he  had,  but  simple  words,  those  with  few 


THE  CHINK  AND  THE  CHILD  255 

gutturals,  he  had  managed  to  pick  up ;  so  he  rose,  the  mas- 
terful lover,  and,  with  feline  movements,  crossed  the  night- 
mare chamber  to  claim  his  own. 

If  you  wonder  how  Lucy  came  to  be  in  this  bagnio,  the 
explanation  is  simple. '  Battling  was  in  training.  He  had 
flogged  her  that  day  before  starting  work;  he  had  then 
had  a  few  brandies — not  many;  some  eighteen  or  nineteen 
— and  had  locked  the  door  of  his  room  and  taken  the 
key.  Lucy  was,  therefore,  homeless,  and  a  girl  somewhat 
older  than  Lucy,  so  old  and  so  wise,  as  girls  are  in  that 
region,  saw  in  her  a  possible  source  of  revenue.  So  there 
they  were,  and  to  them  appeared  Cheng. 

From  what  horrors  he  saved  her  that  night  cannot  be 
told,  for  her  ways  were  too  audaciously  childish  to  hold  her 
long  from  harm  in  such  a  place.  What  he  brought  to  her 
was  love  and  death. 

For  he  sat  by  her.  He  looked  at  her — reverently  yet 
passionately.  He  touched  her — wistfully  yet  eagerly.  He 
locked  a  finger  in  her  wondrous  hair.  She  did  not  start 
away;  she  did  not  tremble.  She  knew  well  what  she  had 
to  be  afraid  of  in  that  place;  but  she  was  not  afraid  of 
Cheng.  She  pierced  the  mephitic  gloom  and  scanned  his 
face.  No,  she  was  not  afraid.  His  yellow  hands,  his  yel- 
low face,  his  smooth  black  hair  .  .  .  well,  he  was  the  first 
thing  that  had  ever  spoken  soft  words  to  her;  the  first 
thing  that  had  ever  laid  a  hand  upon  her  that  was  not 
brutal;  the  first  thing  that  had  deferred  in  manner  towards 
her  as  though  she,  too,  had  a  right  to  live.  She  knew  his 
words  were  sweet,  though  she  did  not  understand  them.|  Nor 
can  they  be  set  down.  Half  that  he  spoke  was  in  village 
Chinese;  the  rest  in  a  mangling  of  English  which  no  dis- 
torted spelling  could  possibly  reproduce. 

But  he  drew  her  back  against  the  cushions  and  asked 
her  name,  and  she  told  him;  and  he  inquired  her  age,  and 
she  told  him;  and  he  had  then  two  beautiful  words  which 
came  easily  to  his  tongue.  He  repeated  them  again  and 
again: 

"Lucia  .  .  .  li'l  Lucia.  .  .  .  Twelve.  .  .  .  Twelve."  Mu- 
sical phrases  they  were,  dropping  from  his  lips,  and  to  the 


256  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

child  who  heard  her  name  pronounced  so  lovingly,  they 
were  the  last  heights  of  melody.  |  She  clung  to  him,  and  he 
to  her.  She  held  his  strong~arm  in  both  of  hers  as  they 
crouched  on  the  divan,  and  nestled  her  cheek  against  his 
coat. 

Well  ...  he  took  her  home  to  his  wretched  room. 

"Li'l  Lucia,  come-a-home  .  .  .  Lucia." 

His  heart  was  on  fire.  As  they  slipped  out  of  the  noi- 
someness  into  the  night  air  and  crossed  the  West  India 
Dock  Road  into  Pennyfields,  they  passed  unnoticed.  It 
was  late,  for  one  thing,  and  for  another  .  .  .  well,  nobody 
cared  particularly.  His  blood  rang  with  soft  music  and 
the  solemnity  of  drums,  for  surely/he  had  found  now  what 
for  many  years  he  had  sought— tffs"  world's  one  flower. 
Wanderer  he  was,  from  Tuan-tsen  to  Shanghai,  Shanghai 
to  Glasgow  .  .  .  Cardiff  .  .  .  Liverpool  .  .  .  London.  He 
had  dreamed  often  of  the  women  of  his  native  land;  per- 
chance one  of  them  should  be  his  flower.  Women,  indeed, 
there  had  been.  Swatow  ...  he  had  recollections  of  cer- 
tain rose-winged  hours  in  coast  cities.  At  many  places  to 
which  chance  had  led  him  a  little  bird  had  perched  itself 
upon  his  heart,  but  so  lightly  and  for  so  brief  a  while  as 
hardly  to  be  felt.  But  now — now  he  had  found  her  in  this 
alabaster  Cockney  child.  So  that  he  was  glad  and  had 
great  joy  of  himself  and  the  blue  and  silver  night,  and  the 
harsh  flares  of  the  Poplar  Hippodrome. 

You  will  observe  that  he  had  claimed  her,  but  had  not 
asked  himself  whether  she  were  of  an  age  for  love.  The 
white  perfection  of  the  child  had  captivated  every  ~sehse. 
It  may  be  that  he  forgot  that  he  was  in  London  and  not 
in  Tuan-tsen.  It  may  be  that  he  did  not  care.  Of  that 
nothing  can  be  told.  All  that  is  known  is  that  his  love  was 
a  pure  and  holy  thing.  Of  that  we  may  be  sure;  for  his 
worst  enemies  have  said  it. 

Slowly,  softly  they  mounted  the  stairs  to  his  room,  and 
with  almost  an  obeisance  he  entered  and  drew  her  in.  A 
bank  of  cloud  raced  to  the  east  and  a  full  moon  thrust  a 
sharp  sword  of  light  upon  them.  Silence  lay  over  all  Pen- 
nyfields. With  a  bird-like  movement,  she  looked  up  at  him 


THE  CHINK  AND  THE  CHILD  257 

— her  face  alight,  her  tiny  hands  upon  his  coat — clinging, 
wondering,  trusting.  He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it; 
repeated  the  kiss  upon  her  cheek  and  lip  and  little  bosom, 
twining  his  fingers  in  her  hair.  Docilely,  and  echoing  the 
smile  of  his  lemon  lips  in  a  way  that  thrilled  him  almost 
to  laughter,  she  returned  his  kisses  impetuously,  gladly. 

He  clasped  the  nestling  to  him.  Bruised,  tearful,  with 
the  love  of  life  almost  thrashed  out  of  her,  she  had  fluttered 
to  him  out  of  the  evil  night. 

;"O  li'l  Lucia!"  And  he  put  soft  hands  upon  her,  and 
smoothed  her  and  crooned  over  her  many  gracious  things 
in  his  flowered  speech.  So  they  stood  in  the  moonlight 
while  she  told  him  the  story  of  her  father,  of  her  beatings, 
and  starvings,  and  unhappiness. 

"O  li'l  Lucia.  .  .  .  White  Blossom.  .  .  .  Twelve.  .  .  . 
Twelve  years  old!" 

As  he  spoke,  the  clock  above  the  Milwall  Docks  shot 
twelve  crashing  notes  across  the  night.  -  When  the  last  echo 
died,  he  moved  to  a  cupboard,  and  from  it  he  drew  strange 
things  .  .  .  formless  masses  of  blue  and  gold,  magical  things 
of  silk,  and  a  vessel  that  was  surely  Aladdin's  lamp,  and  a 
box  of  spices.  He  took  these  robes,  and,  with  tender,  rever- 
ent fingers,  removed  from  his  White  Blossom  the  besmirched 
rags  that  covered  her,  and  robed  her  again,  a&d  led  her 
4he»  to  the  heap  of  stuff  that  was  his  bed,  and  bestowed 
her  safely. 

For  himself,  he  squatted  on  the  floor  before  her,  holding 
one  grubby  little  hand.  There  he  crouched  all  night,  under 
the  lyric  moon,  sleepless,  watchful;  and  sweet  content  was 
his.  He  had  fallen  into  an  uncomfortable  posture,  and  his 
muscles  ached  intolerably.  But  she  slept,  and  he  dared 
not  move  nor  release  her  hand  lest  he  should  awaken  her. 
Weary  and  trustful,  she  slept,  knowing  that  the  yellow  man 
was  kind  and  that  she  might  sleep  with  no  fear  of  a  steel 
hand  smashing  the  delicate  structure  of  her  dreams. 

In  the  morning,  when  she  awoke,  still  wearing  her  blue 
and  yellow  silk,  she  gave  a  cry  of  amazement.  Cheng  had 
been  about.  Many  times  had  be  glided  up  and  down  the 
two  flights  of  stairs,  and  now  at  last  his  room  was  pre- 


THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

pared  for  Ms  princess.  It  was  swept  and  garnished,  and 
was  an  apartment  worthy  a  maid  who  is  loved  by  a  poet- 
prince.  There  was  a  bead  curtain.  There  were  muslins  of 
pink  and  white.  There  were  four  bowls  of  flowers,  clean, 
clear  flowers  to  gladden  the  White  Blossom  and  set  off  her 
sharp  beauty.  And  there  was  a  bowl  of  water,  and  a  sweet 
lotion  for  the  bruise  on  her  cheek. 

When  she  had  risen,  her  prince  ministered  to  her  with 
rice  and  egg  and  tea.  Cleansed  and  robed  and  calm,  she 
sat  before  him,  perched  on  the  edge  of  many  cushions  as 
on  a  throne,  with  all  the  grace  of  the  child  princess  in 
the  story.  She  was  a  poem.  The  beauty  hidden  by  neglect 
and  fatigue  shone  out  now  more  clearly  and  vividly,  and 
from  the  head  sunning  over  with  curls  to  the  small  white 
feet,  now  bathed  and  sandalled,  she  seemed  the  living  in- 
terpretation of  a  Chinese  lyric.  And  she  was  his ;  her  sweet 
self  and  her  prattle,  and  her  birdlike  ways  were  all  his 
own. 

Oh,  beautifully  they  loved.  For  two  days  he  held  her. 
Soft  caresses  from  his  yellow  hands  and  long,  devout  kisses 
were  all  their  demonstration.  Each  night  he  would  tend 
her,  as  might  mother  to  child;  and  each  night  he  watched 
and  sometimes  slumbered  at  the  foot  of  her  couch. 

But  now  there  were  those  that  ran  to  Battling  at  his 
training  quarters  across  the  river,  with  the  news  that  his 
child  had  gone  with  a  Chink — a  yellow  man.  And  Battling 
was  angry.  He  discovered  parental  rights.  He  discovered 
indignation.  A  yellow  man  after  his  kid!  He'd  learn 
him.  Battling  did  not  like  men  who  were  not  born  in  the 
same  great  country  as  himself.  Particularly  he  disliked 
yellow  men.  His  birth  and  education  in  Shadwell  had 
taught  him  that  of  all  creeping  things  that  creep  upon  the 
earth  the  most  insidious  is  the  Oriental  in  the  West.  And 
a  yellow  man  and  a  child.  It  was  ...  as  you  might  say 
...  so  ...  kind  of  ...  well,  wasn't  it?  He  bellowed 
that  it  was  "unnacherel."  The  yeller  man  would  go  through 
it.  Yeller!  It  was  his  supreme  condemnation,  his  final 
epithet  for  all  conduct  of  which  he  disapproved. 

There  was  no  doubt  that  he  was  extremely  annoyed.    He 


THE  CHINK  AND  THE  CHILD  259 

went  to  the  Blue  Lantern,  in  what  was  once  Ratcliff  High- 
way, and  thumped  the  bar,  and  made  all  his  world  agree 
with  him.  And  when  they  agreed  with  him  he  got  angrier 
still.  So  that  when,  a  few  hours  later,  he  climbed  through 
the  ropes  at  the  Netherlands  to  meet  Bud  Tuffit  for  ten 
rounds,  it  was  Bud's  fight  all  the  time,  and  to  that  bright 
boy's  astonishment  he  was  the  victor  on  points  at  the  end 
of  the  ten.  Battling  slouched  out  of  the  ring,  still  more  de- 
termined to  let  the  Chink  have  it  where  the  chicken  had 
the  axe.  He  left  the  house  with  two  pals  and  a  black  man, 
and  a  number  of  really  inspired  curses  from  his  manager. 
•  On  the  evening  of  the  third  day,  then,  Cheng  slipped 
sleepily  down  the  stairs  to  procure  more  flowers  and  more 
rice.  The  genial  Ho  Ling,  who  keeps  the  Canton  store, 
held  him  in  talk  some  little  while,  and  he  was  gone  from 
his  room  perhaps  half-an-hour.  Then  he  glided  back,  and 
climbed  with  happy  feet  the  forty  stairs  to  his  temple  of 
wonder. 

With  a  push  of  a  finger  he  opened  the  door,  and  the 
blood  froze  on  his  cheek,  the  flowers  fell  from  him.  The 
temple  was  empty  and  desolate;  White  Blossom  was  gone. 
The  muslin  hangings  were  torn  down  and  trampled  under- 
foot. The  flowers  had  been  flung  from  their  bowls  about 
the  floor,  and  the  bowls  lay  in  fifty  fragments.  The  joss 
was  smashed.  The  cupboard  had  been  opened.  Rice  was 
scattered  here  and  there.  The  little  straight  bed  had  been 
jumped  upon  by  brute  feet.  Everything  that  could  be 
smashed  or  violated  had  been  so  treated,  and — horror  of 
all — the  blue  and  yellow  silk  robe  had  been  rent  in  pieces, 
tied  in  grotesque  knots,  and  slung  derisively  about  the 
table  legs. 

I  pray  devoutly  that  you  may  never  suffer  what  Cheng 
Huan  suffered  in  that  moment.  The  pangs  of  death,  with 
no  dying;  the  sickness  of  the  soul  which  longs  to  escape 
and  cannot;  the  imprisoned  animal  within  the  breast 
which  struggles  madly  for  a  voice  and  finds  none;  all  the 
agonies  of  all  the  ages — the  agonies  of  every  abandoned 
lover  and  lost  woman,  past  and  to  come — all  these  things 
were  his  in  that  moment. 


26o  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

Then  he  found  voice  and  gave  a  great  cry,  and  men  from 
below  came  up  to  him;  and  they  told  him  how  the  man 
who  boxed  had  been  there  with  a  black  man;  how  he  had 
torn  the  robes  from  his  child,  and  dragged  her  down  the 
stairs  by  her  hair;  and  how  he  had  shouted  aloud  for 
Cheng  and  had  vowed  to  return  and  deal  separately  with 
him. 

Now  a  terrible  dignity  came  to  Cheng,  and  the  soul  of 
his  great  fathers  swept  over  him.  He  closed  the  door 
against  them,  and  fell  prostrate  over  what  had  been  the 
resting-place  of  White  Blossom.  Those  without  heard 
strange  sounds  as  of  an  animal  in  its  last  pains;  and  it 
was  even  so.  Cheng  was  dying.  The  sacrament  of  his  high 
and  holy  passion  had  been  profaned;  the  last  sanctuary  of 
the  Oriental — his  soul  dignity — had  been  assaulted.  The 
love  robes  had  been  torn  to  ribbons;  the  veil  of  his  temple 
cut  down.  Life  was  no  longer  possible;  and  life  without  his 
little  lady,"Ms~  White  Blossom,  was  no  longer  desirable. 

Prostrate  he  lay  for  the  space  of  some  five  minutes. 
Then,  in  his  face  all  the  pride  of  accepted  destiny,  he  arose. 
He  drew  together  the  little  bed.  With  reverent  hands  he 
took  the  pieces  of  blue  and  yellow  silk,  kissing  them  and 
fondling  them  and  placing  them  about  the  pillow.  Silently 
he  gathered  up  the  flowers,  and  the  broken  eartnenware, 
and  burnt  some  prayer  papers  and  prepared  himself  for 
death. 

Now  it  is  the  custom  among  those  of  the  sect  of  Cheng 
that  the  dying  shall  present  love-gifts  to  their  enemies; 
and  when  he  had  set  aJL4n  order,  he  gathered  his  brown 
canvas  coat  about  himy  stole  from  the  house,  and  set  out 
to  find  Battling  Burrows,  bearing  under  the  coat  his  love- 
gift  to  Battling.  White  Blossom  he  had  no  hope  of  finding. 
He  had  heard  of  Burrows  many  times;  and  he  judged  that, 
now  that  she  was  taken  from  him,  never  again  would  he 
hold  those  hands  or  touch  that  laughing  hair.  Nor,  if  he 
did,  could  it  change  things  from  what  they  were.  Nothing 
that  was  not  a  dog  could  live  in  the  face  cf  this  sacrilege. 

As  he  came  before  the  house  in  Pekin  Street,  where  Bat- 
tling lived,  he  murmured  gracious  prayers.  Fortunately,  it 


THE  CHINK  AND  THE  CHILD  261 

was  a  night  of  thick  river  mist,  and  through  the  enveloping 
velvet  none  could  observe  or  challenge  him.  The  main 
door  was  open,  as  are  all  doors  in  this  district.  He  writhed 
across  the  step,  and  through  to  the  back  room,  where  again 
the  door  yielded  to  a  touch. 

Darkness.  Darkness  and  silence,  and  a  sense  of  fright- 
ful things.  He  peered  through  it.  Then  he  fumbled  under 
his  jacket — found  a  match — struck  it.  An  inch  of  candle 
stood  on  the  mantelshelf.  He  lit  it.  He  looked  round. 
No  sign  of  Burrows,  but  .  .  .  Almost  before  he  looked  he 
knew  what  awaited  him.  But  the  sense  of  finality  had 
kindly  stunned  him;  he  could  suffer  nothing  more. 

On  the  table  lay  a  dog-whip.  In  the  corner  a  belt  had 
been  flung.  Half  across  the  greasy  couch  lay  White  Blos- 
som. A  few  rags  of  clothing  were  about  her  pale,  slim 
body;  her  hair  hung  limp  as  her  limbs;  her  eyes  were 
closed.  As  Cheng  drew  nearer  and  saw  the  savage  red 
rails  that  ran  across  and  across  the  beloved  body,  he  could 
not  scream — he  could  not  think. ,  He  dropped  beside  the 
couch.  He  laid  gentle  hands  upon  her,  and  called  soft 
names.  She  was  warm  to  the  touch.  The  pulse  was  still. 

Softly,  oh,  so  softly,  he  bent  over  the  little  frame  that 
had  enclosed  his  friend-spirit,  and  his  light  kisses  fell  all 
about  her.  Then,  with  the  undirected  movements  of  a  sleep- 
walker, he  bestowed  the  rags  decently  about  her,  clasped  her 
in  strong  arms,  and  crept  silently  into  the  night. 

From  Pekin  Street  to  Penny  fields  it  is  but  a  turn  or  two, 
and  again  he  passed  unobserved  as  he  bore  his  tired  bird 
back  to  her  nest.  He  laid  her  upon  the  bed,  and  covered 
the  lily  limbs  with  the  blue  and  yellow  silks  and  strewed 
upon  her  a  few  of  the  trampled  flowers.  Then,  with  more 
kisses  and  prayers,  he  crouched  beside  her. 

So,  in  the  ghastly  Limehouse  morning,  they  were  found — 
the  dead  child,  and  the  Chink,  kneeling  beside  herewith 
a  sharp  knife  gripped  in  a  vise-like  hand,  its  blade  far 
between  his  ribs. 

Meantime,  having  vented  his  wrath  on  his  prodigal  daugh- 
ter, Battling,  still  cross,  had  returned  to  the  Blue  Lantern, 
and  there  he  stayed  with  a  brandy  tumbler  in  his  fist,  for- 


262   THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

getful  of  an  appointment  at  Premierland,  whereby  he  should 
have  been  in  the  ring  at  ten  o'clock  sharp.  For  the  space 
of  an  hour  Chuck  Lightfoot  was  going  blasphemously  to  and 
fro  in  Poplar,  seeking  Battling  and  not  finding  him,  and 
murmuring,  in  tearful  tones:  "Battling — you  damman- 
blasted  Battling — where  are  yeh?" 

His  opponent  was  in  his  corner  sure  enough,  but  there 
was  no  fight.  For  Battling  lurched  from  the  Blue  Lan- 
tern to  Pekin  Street.  He  lurched  into  his  happy  home,  and 
he  cursed  Lucy,  and  called  for  her.  And  finding  no  matches, 
he  lurched  to  where  he  knew  the  couch  should  be,  and 
flopped  heavily  down. 

Now  it  is  a  peculiarity  of  the  reptile  tribe  that  its  mem- 
bers are  impatient  of  being  flopped  on  without  warning. 
So,  when  Battling  flopped,  eighteen  inches  of  writhing  gristle 
upreared  itself  on  the  couch,  and  got  home  on  him  as  Bud 
Tuffit  had  done  the  night  before — one  to  the  ear,  one  to 
the  throat,  and  another  to  the  forearm. 

Battling  went  down  and  out. 

And  he,  too,  was  found  in  the  morning,  with  Cheng 
Huan's  love-gift  coiled  about  his  neck. 


MONSIEUR  FELICITE 

BY  HUGH  WALPOLE 

OF  all  French  towns  Villeton  is  least  touched  by  modern 
influences;  it  lies  (like  a  pearl-grey  shell)  between  the 
arms  of  a  brown  round-backed  hill — over  it  the  sky  is, 
during  most  of  the  year,  a  burning  blue,  and  out  of  it  rise, 
like  hands  stretched  out  to  bless,  the  two  white  towers  of  the 
cathedral. 

It  had  remained  altogether  mediaeval  in  spite  of  its  rail- 
way, for  its  tower  and  its  cathedral  have  kept  it  so;  the 
tower  is  the  "Tour  du  Prince  Noir,"  but  nobody  knows  why 
it  is  called  that — it  is  grey  and  tumbling  and  stands  on  a 
little  green  hill  where  daffodils  and  snowdrops  blow  white 
and  yellow  in  the  spring. 

A  steep  hill  and  every  little  crooked  street  in  the  town 
leads  up  to  the  old  church.  It  fills  one  side  of  the  market- 
place and  from  its  great  carved  door  and  its  myriad-coloured 
windows  looks  down  on  all  the  busy  clattering  life  of  the 
place. 

Monsieur  Felicite  lived  on  the  other  side  of  the  square 
opposite  the  cathedral. 

If  you  were  to  go  and  stay  at  Villeton  nowadays — in 
the  summer  it  is  very  hot,  but  in  the  spring  there  is  no 
place  pleasanter — you  will  hear  them  refer  to  him  con- 
tinually. He  ruled  like  a  little  king  there  in  his  day,  and 
yet  he  was  one  of  the  gentlest  and  mildest  of  men,  and 
never  quarrelled  with  anybody  except  on  the  one  great  oc- 
casion about  which  I  am  going  to  tell  you. 

There  are  pictures  of  him  scattered  about,  and  one  rather 
fine  painting  in  the  big  salle  of  the  "Soleil  Rouge" — much 
the  best  inn  in  the  place.  The  work  is  amateurishly  done, 

263 


264  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

.but  something  of  the  vitality  and  humour  of  the  man  is 
caught  by  it.  He  is  wearing  the  faded  brown  tail-coat  that 
he  always  had,  light  at  the  waist,  with  round  shiny  buttons 
at  the  back;  brown  velveteen  trousers,  very  wide  and  baggy; 
and  a  great  brown  bow  of  a  tie  falling  over  his  white  frilled 
shirt.  But  the  face  is  irresistible.  I  never  knew  him  per- 
sonally, but  I  have  sat  gazing  at  that  picture  for  I'm 
ashamed  to  say  how  long,  loving  those  brown  eyes  twinkling 
with  good  humour  and  that  fine  strong  mouth  just  turning 
up  at  the  corners  into  a  little  ghost  of  a  smile.  His  hair  was 
white  when  the  picture  was  painted — curly  and  cropped 
close  to  his  head. 

He  was  short  and  a  little  stout  and  he  always  carried  a 
black  silver- topped  stick  with  which  he  tapped,  like  a  cheer- 
ful robin,  about  the  streets.  Give  him  a  soft  hat,  large  and 
shady,  but  of  no  particular  shape,  and  you  have  him  com- 
plete— Monsieur  Bonaparte  Felicite! 

I  know  nothing  about  his  earlier  history — it  is  better  to 
leave  that  alone;  to  think  of  him  as  young  and  stern  and 
perhaps  impetuous  and  callous  is  to  think  of  some  one  else, 
altogether.  For  the  town  he  is  always  that  little  round 
merry  figure  with  his  white  hair  and  brown  tie — they  re- 
fuse to  believe  that  he  was  ever  anything  else.  His  rooms 
are  still  very  much  as  he  left  them — dark  and  low-roofed 
with  a  wide,  open  fireplace  with  little  brown  tiles  and  a 
faded  green  carpet  sprinkled  with  red  roses.  There  used  to 
be  an  ancient  brown  cabinet  in  the  corner,  and  the  old  piano 
was  against  the  wall  by  the  door — those  things  have  gone. 

He  was  always  to  be  seen  drinking  his  tea  in  the  window 
as  the  evening  began  to  enfold  the  little  town  and  the 
shadows  crept  like  ghosts  across  the  market-place.  His 
lamp  would  burn  like  a  beacon  there  as  he  watched  the 
stars  come  out  one  by  one  over  the  towers  of  the  cathedral. 
People  would  wish  him  a  "Bonsoir,  monsieu?"  as  they 
passed,  but  he  had  no  relations  of  his  own;  there  was  only 
Madame  Bette,  who  looked  after  him,  and,  of  course,  his 
great  friend  Andre. 

It  is  about  Monsieur  Andr6  and  the  quarrel  that  he  had 
with  Monsieur  Felicite  that  I  am  going  to  tell  you,  for  it  is 


MONSIEUR  FELICITE  265 

always  the  story  that  they  will  tell  you  first  about  him. 
Monsieur  Andre  was  an  enormous  giant  of  a  man.  There 
is  still  a  rough  little  sketch  of  him  at  the  house  of  Monsieur 
Raguilleau,  the  notary,  and  it  is,  they  say,  a  good  likeness. 
He  was  as  broad  as  he  was  tall,  and  extraordinary  stories 
were  told  of  his  strength,  but  his  eyes  were  kind  and  his 
mouth  smiled.  He  served  in  '70  against  the  Prussians,  and 
to  the  intimate  circle  at  the  "Soleil  Rouge"  in  the  evening 
he  would  tell  the  most  wonderful  stories  about  those  days 
and  the  things  that  he  had  seen  and  done. 

He  was  very  proud  and  curiously  shy  unless  you  knew 
him  well,  and  he  was  a  very  difficult  man  to  know.  He 
was  hopelessly  unpractical  and  had  no  common  sense  at  all, 
and  his  rooms  were  always  dreadfully  untidy  and  his  clothes 
uncared  for  until  he  became  intimate  with  Monsieur  Felicite. 
He  used  to  forget  his  meals  and  go  wandering  out  into  the 
fields  and  woods,  cutting  off  the  heads  of  the  poppies  as 
though  they  had  been  so  many  Prussians  and  muttering  to 
himself  all  the  time. 

He  was  a  very  affectionate  man,  but  before  he  met  Mon- 
sieur Felicite  he  had  no  one  to  whom  to  give  it  all  save  a 
kind  of  mongrel  dog  called  "Boule  de  Suif"  because  of  its 
round  "podgy"  shape,  like  the  poor  lady  in  Maupassant's 
story.  The  dog  was  always  with  him,  and  an  unpleasant 
kind  of  dog  it  was  to  every  one  except  its  master.  Then 
he  met  Monsieur  Felicite  and  the  dog  had  to  take  second 
place. 

Their  meeting  was  under  the  wide  arch  of  Madame  Per- 
mon's  door  in  the  Rue  des  Ecoliers  in  a  shower  of  rain,  and 
afterwards  they  shared  an  umbrella.  Monsieur  Felicite  was 
always  charming  to  every  one,  but,  on  this  occasion,  he  had 
to  do  most  of  the  talking,  and  Monsieur  Andre  came  in, 
every  now  and  again,  with  a  "Ha!"  or  a  "Mais,  oui!"  and 
at  times  a  surly  "Mais,  nonf"  from  the  back  of  his  throat* 
It  must  have  been  amusing  to  watch  them  because  Mon- 
sieur Andre  refused  to  hold  the  umbrella  and  Monsieur 
Felicite  had  to  stand  on  the  edge  of  his  toes  to  keep  it  high 
enough.  Outside  Monsieur  Felicite's  door  they  stopped, 
and  for  a  moment  nothing  was  said;  then  suddenly  Mon- 


266   THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

sieur  Andre  shot  out  his  hand  and  gripped  the  handle  of  the 
umbrella  and  Monsieur  Felicite's  fingers  so  fiercely  that  the 
little  man  winced. 

Then  the  giant  turned  hurriedly  away  and,  with  "Boule 
de  Suif "  at  his  heels,  sped  round  the  corner. 

After  that,  Monsieur  Andre  was  often  to  be  seen  in  the 
square;  sometimes  he  would  walk  round  and  round,  his 
head  down,  his  arms  folded  behind  his  back,  his  dog  at  his 
heels,  and  not  a  word  would  he  say  to  any  one.  His  visit 
had,  apparently,  no  relation  at  all  to  Monsieur  Felicite,  for 
he  never  went  near  his  door  nor  did  he  glance  up  at  his 
window.  Once  the  little  man  watched  him,  and  at  last 
came  out  of  his  house,  intending  to  speak  to  him,  but  Mon- 
sieur Andre  was  round  the  corner  in  a  moment. 
'  At  last  he  was  caught  leaning  against  the  wall  looking 
vacantly  into  space,  and,  shamefaced  and  reluctant,  he  was 
made  to  climb  the  stairs  to  the  room  with  the  green  car- 
pet and  the  brown  cabinet.  He  stared  in  amazement  at  the 
neatness  of  it  and  sat  down  suddenly,  without  a  word — 
like  the  Queen  of  Sheba,  " there  was  no  more  spirit  in  him." 
Monsieur  Felicite  made  tea  and  talked  all  the  time  in  the 
charming,  graceful  way  that  he  had.  He  was  so  humbla 
and  tender-hearted  a  little  man  that  he  flung  a  beautiful 
light  over  everything.  "Boule  de  Suif"  loved  him  at  once — 
as  indeed  did  all  children  and  animals — and  soon  Monsieur 
Andre,  being  nothing  more  than  a  child  himself,  followed 
his  dog's  example. 

Then  Monsieur  Andre  began  to  talk,  and  soon  his  stories 
were  pouring  out  in  a  great,  tempestuous  stream.  I  don't 
think  that  Monsieur  Felicite  believed  it  all,  even  from  the 
first,  and,  after  a  time,  he  misdoubted  it  altogether,  but 
he  would  sit  in  the  corner  by  the  fire,  smiling,  his  little  hands 
folded,  and  every  now  and  again  a  "Mais,  oui/"  or  "Cer- 
tainenient!"  or  "Mon  Dieu!"  shot  out  like  little  bullets.  I 
think  he  took  the  stories  as  part  of  his  friend  and  never 
minded  their  impossibility.  Sometimes  Monsieur  Andre 
himself  wondered  whether  some  especially  daring  statement 
could  really  be  true,  and  he  would  pause  for  a  moment  and 
look  sharply  at  his  friend — but,  after  an  instant's  hesitation, 


MONSIEUR  FELICITE  267 

conviction  would  be  back  again  and  with  a  satisfied  "Mot 
j'etais  la!"  he  would  go  on  again. 

Soon  they  were  inseparable,  and  all  the  town  knew  that 
it  was  so.  There  must  have  been  some  jealousy  about  it,  for 
Monsieur  Felicite  was  the  idol  of  the  town  and  the  others 
did  not  see  why  Monsieur  Andre  should  appropriate  him  so 
entirely.  They  liked  the  man  well  enough,  and  they  treated 
his  stories  respectfully,  although  they  laughed  behind  his 
back.  He  certainly  had  the  grand  manner,  and  he  piled 
Pelion  on  Ossa  with  a  gesture  and  a  gusto  that  covered  a 
multitude  of  untruths.  Besides,  after  all,  the  people  of 
Villeton  were  not  so  very  truthful  themselves,  and  a  story 
was  always  to  be  saved  by  its  interest  rather  than  its  ac- 
curacy. 

Once  a  week,  on  Friday  evenings,  they  went  down  to  the 
Rue  Soleil  and  smoked  with  their  friends.  Monsieur  Felicite 
had  never  joined  these  assemblies  before;  he  had  gone  out 
very  little  in  the  evening,  but  now  Monsieur  Andre  brought 
him  with  him  and  of  course  he  was  given  the  warmest  of 
welcomes.  Those  Friday  gatherings  still  go  on  and  you 
can  see  the  very  corner  in  which  Monsieur  Felicite  used  to 
sit — at  the  back,  to  the  right,  under  the  painting  of  Mon- 
sieur Soul,  fat  and  red-faced,  onetime  Mayor  of  Villeton. 
The  room  is  charming  with  its  low  smoke-stained  roof,  its 
oak  panelling  and  red-brick  floor.  An  old  oak  partition  ris- 
ing half-way  to  the  ceiling  cuts  the  room  into  two,  and  it 
was  behind  this,  in  the  most  delicious  and  intimate  privacy, 
round  a  large  and  shining  table,  that  they  sat. 

There  were  ten  of  them  at  that  time — the  most  celebrated 
being  young  Jacques  Paturot,  poet  and  pastry-cook;  Mon- 
sieur Marteau,  the  bookseller,  and  Monsieur  Raguilleau,  the 
notary,  who  was  responsible  for  most  of  the  quarrelling. 

Monsieur  Andre  sat  on  his  friend's  right  with  "Boule  de 
Suif"  at  his  feet  and  an  enormous  pipe  in  his  mouth.  He 
was  generally  silent  until  he  considered  that  the  crucial  mo- 
ment had  come,  then  he  would  cough,  lean  forward  over  the 
table  and  begin.  The  rest  of  the  company  listened  some- 
what phlegmatically,  but  they  never  interrupted,  and  mur- 
mured at  times  to  show  that  they  were  attending.  Then, 


268   THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

his  story  over,  Monsieur  Andre  would  sink  back  into  his  seat 
again  and  listen  to  other  people. 

After  a  while  Monsieur  Felicite  began  to  be  worried.  He 
had,  by  this  time,  a  great  affection  for  his  friend  and  he 
was  very  jealous  of  everything  that  concerned  his  reputation. 
Once  he  had  overheard  Monsieur  Permon  and  Monsieur 
Raguilleau  laughing  at  the  stories;  they  had  mocked  at  Mon- 
sieur Andre  in  a  way  that  hurt  the  little  man  dreadfully. 
He  went  back  to  his  room  and  pondered  over  the  mat- 
ter. 

He  knew  that,  in  the  future,  every  story  that  his  friend 
told  would  torture  him;  those  nights  at  the  club,  hitherto 
so  gay  and  delightful,  would  now  be  impossible.  He  could 
not  sit  there  and  listen  to  his  friend  and  know  that  those 
others  were  laughing  to  themselves.  He  had  not  minded 
the  stories  when  they  were  told  in  his  room  with  no  other 
person  there — then  it  was  for  himself  alone  to  judge,  and  he 
had  loved  the  great  rambling  boaster  far  too  dearly  to  judge 
him  severely.  It  had,  indeed,  puzzled  him  a  little.  Mon- 
sieur Andre,  on  all  other  occasions,  was  modest  and  retiring, 
and  indeed  agreed  with  his  friend  in  any  proposal  that  was 
made,  but,  so  soon  as  '70  was  mentioned,  the  head  was 
raised,  the  chest  swelled,  and  "Moi,  j'etais  la!"  came  burst- 
ing forth — for  a  moment  cannons  roared,  corpses  lay  strewn 
about  the  dark  little  streets  of  Villeton,  and  Monsieur  Andre 
was  a  hero  indeed — even  "Boule  de  Suif"  took  on  a  new  and 
splendid  grandeur.  It  was  all  rather  ridiculous  perhaps,  but 
so  long  as  there  was  no  audience  it  mattered  nothing  at  all — 
the  maddening  thought  was  that  the  whole  town  should 
laugh  and  jeer.  Monsieur  Felicite  was  furious  at  the 
thought.  He  thought  and  thought  about  it,  but  could  come 
to  no  definite  conclusion.  He  realised  that  his  friend  was  a 
very  sensitive  person  and  that  the  whole  matter  was  one  of 
extreme  delicacy.  To  tell  him  publicly  would  be  impossible 
from  every  point  of  view — he  could  see  the  startled  looks  of 
his  friends  and  he  could  hear  the  chatter  pass  round  the 
room.  No,  whatever  happened,  it  must  be  quietly  done. 
At  the  next  meeting  in  the  Rue  Soleil  it  chanced  that  Mon- 
sieur Andre  was  more  talkative  than  ever.  The  stories 


MONSIEUR  F  ELI  CITE  269 

burst  from  him  as  lava  from  a  volcano.  It  was  in  Paris 
and  he  had  rescued  a  girl,  a  beautiful  girl;  he  had  had  to 
climb  with  her  on  to  roofs  and  then  there  had  been  only  a 
telegraph-wire  between  them  and  death.  He  wiped  his  brow 
with  an  enormous  red  handkerchief  at  the  recollection. 

Monsieur  Felicite's  cheeks  burned  as  he  listened.  This 
was  the  kind  of  thing  at  which  they  all  laughed.  He  watched 
his  friend — so  pleased  and  proud,  his  hand  in  the  air,  his 
eyes  twinkling,  and  at  last  that  triumphant  "Eh!  Moi, 
j'etais  Id!" — then  his  eyes  turned  slowly  to  Monsieur  Per- 
mon,  Monsieur  Raguilleau,  Monsieur  Marteau,  Jacques  Pa- 
turot  and  the  rest;  they  were  sitting  there  quietly,  gravely, 
sucking  solemnly  at  their  pipes,  nodding  approvingly  as  the 
climax  was  reached.  He  could  fancy  what  they  were  think- 
ing, what  they  would  say  afterwards  to  their  wives,  even 
young  Paturot — "That  old  Andre  and  his  stories!" 

He  went  back  to  his  rooms  very  sad  at  heart,  and  as  he 
sat  gloomily  by  his  fire  he  made  up  his  mind  to  speak  to  his 
friend. 

On  the  next  evening  Monsieur  Andre  came  in  to  see  Mon- 
sieur Felicite.  He  was  happy  and  pleased — it  seemed  a 
good  moment  in  which  to  say  something.  Monsieur  Andre" 
talked  on — things  that  he  had  seen  in  the  town:  Madame 
Permon  with  her  green  umbrella  and  her  pug;  young  Patu- 
rot making  verses  behind  the  counter  and  so  mixing  the 
parcels,  which  only  proved  that  it  was  better  to  do  one  thing 
at  a  time;  funny  and  perplexing  things  that  most  intelligent 
of  all  dogs,  "Boule  de  Suif,"  had  seen  fit  to  do.  He  rambled 
on.  Monsieur  Felicite  sat  awkwardly  in  his  chair  and  said 
nothing — he  was  wondering  how  he  ought  to  begin. 

The  light  from  the  candles  mingled  with  the  firelight  on 
the  ceiling  in  little  pools  and  whirling,  twisting  shadows — it 
caught  the  old  twisted  chairs,  the  brown  cabinet,  and  at 
last  danced  on  Monsieur  Andre's  nose. 

Monsieur  Felicite  plunged. 

"Mon  ami "  he  said,  and  paused. 

"Yes,"  said  Monsieur  Andre,  pulling  "Boule  de  Suifs" 
ears  and  looking  at  the  fire. 

"There,  is  a  thing — that  I  would  like  to  say."    Monsieur 


270  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

Felicite  cleared  his  throat.  "I  have  been  wondering  a  little 
lately — only  a  little — about — well,  about  your  stories;  the 
histories,  you  know,  of  the  war  and  the  things  that  you  have 
done." 

"Yes,"  said  Monsieur  Andre,  apparently  gratified.  "They 
are  good  stones." 

"Well,"  said  Monsieur  Felicite,  stammering  in  his  agita- 
tion, "they  are  good  stories — splendid  stories — I  like  to 
listen,  above  all  things.  But — there  are  the  others " 

"What  others?"  said  Monsieur  Andre,  looking  at  his 
friend  in  a  puzzled  way. 

"Well,  Messieurs  Permon,  Raguilleau,  Marteau  .  .  . 
and  others,  our  friends  .  .  .  they  don't  believe  them, 
they  laugh,  they  mock — and  it  hurts  me,  your  friend.  They 
think — that  there  is  too  much — that  there  is  exaggera- 
tion  " 

He  paused.    Monsieur  Andre  said  nothing. 

Monsieur  Felicite  went  on  desperately.  "It  is  not  I,  you 
understand,  who  say  that.  You  are  my  friend  and  I  hate 
them  to  mock.  They  do  it,  perhaps,  without  thought.  They 
do  not  know.  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Monsieur  Andre  was  sitting 
very  stiffly  in  his  chair;  the  ball  in  his  throat  went  up  and 
down,  and  he  made  little  clucking  noises  like  a  her. 

"You  are  my  friend,"  he  said  at  last,  slowly,  "and  you 
say  these  things."  He  spoke  in  a  whisper. 

"It  is  not  I,"  said  Monsieur  Felicite,  "but  the  others — 
they  say  things  and  laugh.  And  I  love  you  and  I  would  not 
have  you  ridiculous." 

At  the  word  "ridiculous"  Monsieur  Andre,  trembling  with 
anger,  rose  from  his  chair;  he  stood,  an  enormous  figure, 
in  the  firelight,  one  hand  trembling  in  the  air,  the  other 
hand  clenched. 

"You  say  that  you  are  my  friend,  that  you  love  me,"  he 
said,  his  voice  shaking,  "and  you  tell  me  that  my  stories  are 
lies,  that " 

"No,"  broke  in  Monsieur  Felicite,  "it  is  not  I  who  say 

"But  it  is  you!"  cried  Monsieur  Andre  with  furious 


MONSIEUR  FELICITE  271 

triumph.  "You,  my  friend.  Pah!  take  that  for  your  friend- 
ship!" and  he  wildly  snapped  his  fingers.  "And  those 
others!  Did  I  not  go  to  them  long  before  you?  Have 
they  not  listened  to  my  histories  and  am  I  such  a  fool,  such 
a  cuckoo,  such  a  stuttering  simpleton,  that  I  cannot  tell 
whether  they  believe  them?  Am  I,  indeed?  No,  it  is  you 
who  cannot  believe  what  I,  your  friend,  say.  A  pretty 
friend!  A  liar,  a  knave,  a  teller  of  tales!"  and  Monsieur 
Andre  again  snapped  his  fingers. 

"No,  please."  Monsieur  Felicite,  his  eyes  full  of  tears, 
rose  from  his  seat  and  laid  his  hand  on  his  friend's  arm. 
Monsieur  Andre  shook  it  off  and  walked  towards  the  door. 

"You  have  called  me  a  liar!  You,  my  friend!"  he  shouted. 
"I  have  been  called  a  liar  and  I  will  never  forgive  it!  Never! 
Here  is  an  end,  for  ever,  monsieur!  Never  speak  to  me 
again!  I  know  how  to  value  your  friendship.  You  have 
used  language  to  me  that  has  never  been  used  to  an  Andre-^ 
it  is  enough — I  shall  not  forget " 

He  flung  open  the  door  and  stamped  furiously  into  the 
passage,  followed  by  "Boule  de  Suif." 

Madame  Bette  heard  most  of  this  from  the  other  side  of 
the  keyhole,  and  that  is  how  I  know.  Any  one  in  Villeton 
will  tell  you  the  same. 

Monsieur  Felicite  sat  miserably  in  front  of  his  fire,  hop- 
ing that  his  friend  would  return.  He  knew  his  impetuous 
temper  and  that  he  ever  said  more  than  he  really  meant, 
and  so  he  listened  eagerly  as  the  steps  passed  beneath  his 
window  and  voices  echoed  down  the  street — but  Monsieur 
Andre  did  not  come.  The  coals  clicked  in  little  golden  cav- 
erns, the  light  died,  the  grey  ashes  lay  in  little  heaps  where 
the  fire  had  been,  the  candles  jumped  wildly  up  and  down  as 
they  sank  into  their  silver  holders,  little  winds  rose  about  the 
house  and  whistled  at  the  window,  the  clock  in  the  market- 
place struck  one,  and  still  Monsieur  Felicite  sat  there.  He 
was  gone,  his  friend,  and  all  that  had  made  those  last  months 
so  beautiful,  so  happy,  had  gone  too.  Whilst  it  had  lasted 
he  had  not  realised  the  security  of  it,  the  happiness  of 
knowing  that  there  was  some  one  always  there  who  cared 
for  him.  ...  He  sat  miserably  reminiscent.  In  the 


272    THE  GREAT  MODERN,  ENGLISH  STORIES 

morning  it  was  all  about  the  town.  Madame  Bette  had 
heard  it,  had  seen  Monsieur  Andre  leave  the  house.  "Oh! 
quel  mauvais  caractere  .  .  .  Mais,  ouil  tt  etait  en  colere! 
.  .  .  C' etait  ejfrayant!"  They  discussed  it  at  every  cor- 
ner. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day  they  met,  and  Madame 
Permon,  who  saw  them,  said  that  it  was  pitiful.  It  was  in 
the  Rue  des  Ecoliers  at  the  narrow  corner  by  the  cathedral, 
so  that  there  was  really  no  room  at  all  and  their  coats 
brushed  as  they  passed.  Monsieur  Andre  was  walking,  his 
dog  at  his  heels,  with  his  head  high  and  his  moustaches 
twirled  to  the  utmost  twist  of  ferocity.  Monsieur  Felicite's 
head  was  down,  and  there  were  heavy  lines  under  his  eyes 
that  showed  that  he  had  not  slept.  He  stopped  and  held  out 
his  hand.  Monsieur  Andre  pushed  fiercely  past  him  as 
though  he  had  not  been  there. 

After  that  there  could  be  no-  question  of  compromise. 
Monsieur  Felicite  had  his  pride. 

Yes,  he  had  his  pride,  but  he  suffered  terribly.  In  the 
first  place  he  knew  that  the  whole  town  would  talk,  was 
indeed  talking  with  all  its  might.  Groups  at  corners  of  the 
street;  Madame  Boileau's  stall  in  the  market-place,  the 
favourite  point  of  gossip  in  the  town;  M.  Carite,  the  tailor, 
who,  with  his  long  nose  and  great  spectacles,  was  always 
standing  in  his  door  ready  for  a  word  with  his  neighbour — 
all  these  people  seemed  to  him  bursting  with  the  news.  And 
they  did  talk  of  course.  It  was  far  too  exciting  a  topic  to 
leave  untouched.  There  was  no  question  of  sides;  poor 
Monsieur  Felicite  had  been  abominably  treated,  and  that 
wretched  gawk  of  an  Andre  deserved  nothing  better  than  a 
hanging — Monsieur  Felicite,  who  had  never  quarrelled  with 
any  one  in  the  whole  of  his  life,  to  be  pestered  by  such  a 
creature!  They  tried  to  make  it  up  to  him,  the  good 
women,  by  little  attentions  and  presents.  On  the  morning 
after  the  quarrel  the  little  man  found  on  his  table  an  enor- 
mous cucumber,  half  a  ham,  a  red  cotton  handkerchief  with 
spots,  a  pair  of  carpet  slippers,  a  pair  of  braces,  and  a  china 
vase.  Madame  Bette  looked  at  these  things  contemptuously 
and  then  left  the  room  in  a  flood  of  tears,  murmuring  "Le 


MONSIEUR  F ELICIT E  273 

pauvre!  Le  pauvre!"  all  the  way  down  to  the  kitchen. 
But  all  this  affection  could  in  no  way  compensate  for  the 
loss  of  his  friend.  A  hundred  times  a  day  he  felt  that  he 
could  bear  it  no  longer  and  started  out  to  make  the  peace 
and  then,  on  the  way,  his  pride  would  return  to  him,  he 
would  flush  at  the  memory  of  the  things  that  Monsieur 
Andre  had  said,  and  he  would  slowly  return.  He  went 
out  very  little  for  fear  lest  they  should  meet  in  the  street, 
and  he  scarcely  dared  to  sit  at  his  window. 

Friday  evening  was  a  time  of  torture,  for  they  both  con- 
tinued to  go  to  the  meetings  at  the  "Soleil  Rouge/'  because 
I  think  they  tried  to  show  to  the  world  that  it  did  not  mat- 
ter, this  quarrel. 

So  there  they  used  to  sit,  both  of  them  as  unhappy  as  pos- 
sible. 

Monsieur  Andre  suffered  too,  I  suppose,  and  he  had  the 
execration  of  the  whole  town  to  bear.  People  would  scarcely 
speak  to  him,  and  women  would  shake  their  fists  at  his  back 
and  little  boys  would  throw  stones  at  "Boule  de  Suif."  And 
he  loved  Monsieur  Felicite  with  an  absolutely  undying  de- 
votion; the  longer  the  quarrel  lasted  the  more  he  knew 
that  he  cared.  But  his  pride  was  greater  than  Monsieur 
Felicite's's  and  he  would  not  give  way.  Poor  Monsieur 
Felicite  grew  quite  thin  and  pale;  his  clothes  hung  loosely 
about  him,  and  try  as  Madame  Bette  would,  she  could  not 
keep  him  neat.  He  ate  very  little  and  slept  badly  at  night. 
Monsieur  Andre  grew  so  fierce  that  it  was  as  much  as  any 
one's  life  was  worth  to  speak  to  him — he  was  even  unkind 
to  "Boule  de  Suif,"  and  on  one  terrible  occasion  he  kicked 
him. 

So  matters  went  on  for  several  months,  and  there  seemed 
to  be  no  hope  at  all  of  any  reconcilation.  Then  something 
happened. 

One  Friday  night  at  the  "Soleil  Rouge"  Monsieur  Raguil- 
leau  had  news.  When  Monsieur  Raguilleau  had  news  there 
was  no  mistaking  it;  he  sat  there  with  his  eyes  almost 
closed,  his  mouth  pursed,  his  nose  in  the  air.  One  had  often 
to  wait  a  considerable  time  before  the  news  came — he  liked 
to  keep  the  sensation — but  it  was  generally  worth  having. 


274  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

He  looked  at  his  absinthe,  tilted  it  for  a  moment  in  his 
glass,  and  then  said: 

"Marie  has  returned." 

Every  one  was  excited  and  there  were  murmurs  of  "Mais 
non!"  and  "Vraiment!"  and  "Mon  Dieut"  passing  round 
the  table.  Even  Monsieur  Felicite  was  moved;  his  cheeks 
coloured  and  he  leaned  a  little  forward.  Monsieur  Andre 
sat  up  straight  in  his  chair  and  looked  at  Monsieur  Raguil- 
leau.  "Marie!"  he  said  with  a  gasp.  Their  minds  flew 
back  to  the  time,  not  so  very  long  ago,  when  Marie  Blanche 
had  lightened  the  whole  town  with  her  smiles — wonderful 
hair,  cheeks  like  roses,  a  laugh  like  a  bell,  and  the  temper  of 
an  angel !  And  then  a  man  had  come,  a  fellow  from  another 
province,  good-looking  enough  in  a  black,  fierce  kind  of  way, 
but  a  scoundrel  if  ever  there  was  one.  She  had  loved  him 
and  gone  with  him,  and  her  mother  had  died  of  grief — and 
now  she  had  come  back  alone. 

"She  is  ill,"  said  Monsieur  Raguilleau.  "She  has  a  baby. 
He  did  not  marry  her." 

He  brought  his  sentence  out  with  a  certain  sharp  satis- 
faction. He  was  sorry  for  the  girl  of  course,  but  it  was 
something  to  be  able  to  create  a  sensation. 

"Where  is  she?"  said  Monsieur  Marteau. 

"In  a  room,  5  Rue  Napoleon — the  top  floor — I  have  not 
seen  her."  This  he  added  in  vindication  of  his  own  moral 
conduct.  After  all  he  had  his  character  to  think  about. 
Marie  was  no  better  than  she  ought  to  be,  and  it  would  not 
do  for  respectable  citizens  .  .  .  Nevertheless  he  shifted 
a  little,  uncomfortably,  in  his  chair. 

"Well,  well,"  said  Monsieur  Permon,  also  rather  uneasy. 
"Poor  thing,  poor  thing!  Still  it's  her  own  fault  .  .  . 
hum  ...  ha  ...  the  brute  .  .  .  dear  me!  "and 
so  left  it  perfectly  clear  that  he  could  have  nothing  to  do 
with  the  matter.  This  was  the  general  attitude  of  the  table. 
We  were  very  respectable  in  Villeton  and  it  didn't  do  to  be 
mixed  up  with  that  sort  of  thing. 

Monsieur  Felicite  went  back  to  his  rooms  and  summoned 
Madame  Bette. 

"Voyez"  he  said,  "I  want  things — many  things." 


MONSIEUR  FELICITE  275 

"Things,  monsieur?"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  impatiently,  "for  one  who  is  ill — 
nourishing  things — soups  and  puddings  and  fruit — and 
quickly." 

Soon,  carrying  an  enormous  basket,  he  passed  into  the 
dark  street.  He  took  unfrequented  paths  because  he  did  not 
wish  to  be  met  by  any  one.  They  did  talk  so  in  Viileton. 
His  thoughts  were  all  with  the  girl — poor  Marie!  She  had 
been  the  delight  of  the  town  in  those  earlier  days,  and  now 
that  scoundrel  ...  He  clenched  his  fist  and  made  a 
little  noise  in  his  throat.  The  Rue  Napoleon  was  very  dark, 
being,  indeed,  only  lighted  by  one  very  dismal  lamp.  No.  $ 
was  a  tall  and  gloomy  house  with  shuttered  windows — on 
the  top  floor  a  light  was  dimly  burning. 

Monsieur  Felicite  banged  the  knocker  and  the  door  was 
opened  by  an  old  woman. 

"Madame  Perite?    You  have  Marie  here?" 

"Ah!  Monsieur!"  The  old  woman  burst  into  tears.  "It 
is  pitiful.  Until  just  now  no  one  had  come,  and  it  is  ter- 
rible. She  has  no  money  .  .  .  and  she  suffers.  Mon 
Dieu!  how  she  suffers!  Ah!  they  are  hard,  these  peo- 
ple." 

She  held  a  candle  above  her  head  and  led  the  way  up  the 
dark  stairs.  On  the  top  landing  she  turned  and  pushed 
open  the  door. 

"Take  the  candle,  monsieur,"  she  said. 

He  stepped  into  the  room.  It  was  a  large  attic — the  roof 
slanted  to  either  side;  there  was  little  furniture.  A  bed 
against  the  farther  wall,  two  rickety  chairs,  a  table,  and  on 
the  chimney-piece  a  guttering  candle. 

In  the  waving  light  the  girl's  head  lay  dark  against  the 
white  of  the  pillows;  by  the  bedside  a  man  was  kneeling, 
and  at  the  sound  of  his  voice  Monsieur  Felicite  started,  the 
candle  shook  in  his  hand,  and  he  stayed  motionless  by  the 
door. 

"Nay,  but  Marie,  poor  little  Marie.  ...  I  will  look 
after  the  babe.  I  will  see  to  it  that  you  do  not  suffer " 

The  girl  laughed.  "Why,  Monsieur  Andre — you  and  the 
baby! — that  would  be  truly  droll.  Why,  you  would  not 


276   THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

know  what  to  do.  But,  indeed,  monsieur,  I  am  better  al- 
ready now  that  you  have  come.  There  was  no  one  and 
I  was  afraid.  ...  I  knew  what  they  would  say " 

She  turned  her  head  on  the  pillow  and  began  to  cry 
softly. 

That  was  too  much  for  Monsieur  Felicite.  He  crossed  the 
room  with  his  basket.  He  had,  for  the  moment,  forgotten 
Monsieur  Andre. 

"Marie  .  .  .  little  one.  It  is  I,  your  old  friend.  Droll 
Monsieur  Felicite  with  whom  you  laughed.  I  had  only  just 
heard  and  I  hurried  here.  And  see,  here  in  a  basket  I  have 
brought  things  for  you  and  the  baby  .  .  .  beautiful 
things." 

He  went  down  on  his  little  fat  knees  by  the  bed  and  put 
his  arm  round  her. 

"Ah,  monsieur!"  she  said,  and  she  fainted.  At  the  same 
moment  the  baby  began  to  cry. 

"Ah,  mon  Dieul  She  has  fainted!  Quick!"  he  cried  to 
Monsieur  Andre.  "Take  the  baby!  I  will  see  to  her!" 

Monsieur  Andre  clumsily  picked  the  baby  up  and  began 
to  hold  it  upside  down.  Its  cries  were  redoubled. 

"Mais,  non!  Pas  comme  ca!"  Monsieur  Felicite  took  it 
for  a  moment  and  rocked  it  in  his  arms.  "Like  th?,t!  Look 

you "  He  gave  the  baby  back,  and  for  a  moment  their 

hands  touched.  He  bent  over  the  girl.  In  a  little  while  he 
had  brought  her  to. 

"Oh!  It  was  silly  of  me.  But  oh!  monsieur,  you  are  so- 
good  to  me  .  .  .  it  was  too  much !" 

He  knelt  by  the  bed  and  whispered  to  her. 

Monsieur  Andre  stood  an  enormous  shape  in  the  candle- 
light, rocking  the  baby. 

"Now,"  Marie  said,  turning  her  cheek  on  the  pillows  with 
a  smile.  "I  shall  sleep.  Ah!  messieurs,  how  good  you 
both  are  to  me." 

Soon  she  slept.  There  was  silence  for  some  time.  Then 
Monsieur  Felicite  got  up  from  his  knees  and  crossed  over  to 
Monsieur  Andre.  He  put  his  hand  on  the  other's  shoulder; 
Monsieur  Andre  did  not  look  up.  His  hand  passed  over  his 
shoulder  around  his  neck;  he  had  to  stand  on  tip- toe. 


MONSIEUR  FELICITE  277 

"Mon  ami,  I  am  sorry.  It  is  I  who  have  been  wrong. 
I  have  been  lonely — I  have  been  miserable " 

Monsieur  Andre  rocked  the  baby  furiously. 

"No,  but  forgive  me.  I  should  not  have  spoken  as  I  did. 
Carefully,  you  will  wake  the  baby " 

Monsieur  Andre  turned  and  laid  it  on  the  bed. 

"No,  it  is  I,"  he  said  fiercely,  glaring  at  Monsieur  Felicite. 
"What  you  have  said  is  true.  It  is  I  who  have  done  this. 
I  am  a  liar,  a  pig,  a  scoundrel.  .  .  .  It  is  all  true." 

"No,  no,"  said  Monsieur  Felicite. 

"But  it  is  true.  It  is  not  good  for  you  to  have  such  a  man 
for  your  friend — you  who  are  so  good,  a  hero.  But  I  will 
try  ...  I  will  tell  no  more  stories.  ...  I  cannot  be 
without  you."  He  turned  and  clutched  his  friend  by  the 
coat.  "I  am  very  unhappy,"  he  said. 

They  slowly  and  solemnly  embraced;  then,  with  one  last 
look  at  the  two  asleep  on  the  bed,  they  crept  from  the 
room. 


RED  AND  WHITE1 

BY  ROLAND  PERTWEE 

If  we  could  but  forget  by  heart 
The  many  things  we  never  knew, 

Should  we  not  give  a  greater  part 
To  what  is  fanciful  and  true? 

1AM  sixteen  and  a  half  and  quite  old  enough  to  know 
better.  That's  what  uncle  said,  and  I  hate  him,  yes,  I 
do,  even  though  I  believe  it  was  aunt  who  made  him  say 
it,  and  of  course  I  never  could  stand  her.  If  they  went 
down  on  their  knees  and  begged  me  to  forgive  them,  it 
wouldn't  be  any  use. 

Between  them  they  spoiled  4he  most  beautiful  thing  that 
ever  happened  and  made  it  look  all  horrid  and  wrong — and 
— I  can't  think  of  the  word.  And  I  know  now  that  if  I 
met  Mooly  I  should  go  all  red,  and  she'd  go  all  white,  and 
we'd  talk  some  nonsense  about  bicycles  or  whether  it  was 
fine  or  not,  and  try  and  get  away  from  each  other  as  quickly 
as  we  could.  We  shall  feel  we  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
something  there  was  no  shame  in,  but  the  heavenliest  time 
two  people  ever  spent  together. 

When  we  grow  up,  I  often  wonder,  do  we  all  grow  beastly? 
Do  we  all  see  things  wrong  and  twisted,  and  miss  the  best 
every  time?  It  seems  to  me  we  do,  and  so  I  hate  all  grown- 
ups as  much  as  I  hate  uncle  and  aunt.  I  think  I  shall  go 
away  somewhere  and  hide,  or  be  a  hermit  and  spend  the  rest 
of  my  days  remembering  Mooly  and  trying  to  forget  all 
the  rest. 

But  before  I  go  I  want  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  every- 

1  Copyright,  1917,  by  The  Century  Company.  By  permission 
of  the  Century  Magazine  and  the  author. 

278 


RED  AND  WHITE  279 

thing  in  the  hope  that  there  is  at  least  some  one  who  will 
see  it  just  as  it  really  and  truly  is. 

My  name  is  Dorian  Festubert,  and  my  mother  died 
when  I  was  born,  so  she  never  had  the  chance  to  be  as 
lovely  to  me  as  I  know  she  would  have  been.  When  my 
father  heard  that  she  was  dead  he  went  up  to  the  bedroom 
and  kissed  her  and  said  "What  a  happy  time  we've  missed, 
my  dear!"  Then  he  went  into  the  garden  and  shot  himself. 

I  have  always  been  awfully  proud  of  my  father  for  that, 
and  one  day  when  I  heard  aunt  telling  seme  one  the  story, 
and  saying,  "They  were  a  very  hysterical  family,"  I  flew  into 
a  fearful  rage,  and  said  all  sorts  of  things  I  shouldn't  have 
said  about  her  mothers'  meeting  and  the  rotten  presents  of 
vegetables  she  gave  to  the  parish  poor.  There  was  no  end 
of  a  scene,  and  uncle  said  I  was  an  ill-conditioned  young 
pup  and  didn't  know  what  respect  meant. 

"Well,"  said  I,  "you  don't  know  what  love  means  and 
never  will." 

After  that  I  had  a  hiding,  four  with  the  back  and  two 
with  the  bristles;  but  I  wasn't  a  bit  sorry,  because  what  I 
had  said  was  true. 

They  wouldn't  let  me  go  to  a  decent  public  school,  like 
any  other  boy,  because  of  its  "polluting  influences,"  what- 
ever they  mry  be.  I  should  think  uncle  must  have  gone  to, 
a  public  school  all  right,  and  got  properly  polluted — and 
aunt,  too. 

I  had  governesses  with  spectacles  until  I  was  twelve 
years  old.  They  wore  dresses  that  buttoned  down  the 
front  because  none  of  the  servants  would  ever  do  anything 
for  them.  They  taught  me  grammar  and  arithmetic,  and 
read  aloud  from  the  New  Testament  and  Thomas  a  Kern- 
pis. 

We  lived  in  a  big  house  with  what  might  have  been  jolly 
grounds.  The  reason  why  they  weren't  jolly  was  because 
there  were  no  wild  parts.  Every  square  inch  was  cultivated. 
You  know,  close-cut  grass,  horrible  cactus,  carpet  beds,  very 
tidy  gravel  paths,  and  rolls  of  wire  netting  round  all  the 
little  trees. 

The  inside  of  the  house  was  just  as  bad.    Everything  had 


280  THE  GREAT  MODERN.  ENGLISH  STORIES 

a  place.  If  you  moved  an  ornament  half  an  inch,  it  was 
always  put  back.  When  there  was  a  spring  cleaning  on, 
and  the  furniture  was  piled  up  in  a  heap,  you  could  see 
a  map  on,  the  pile  of  carpets  showing  where  every  single 
chair  or  table  had  to  go.  There  was  nowhere  where  a 
chap  could  make  a  good  old  mess.  Even  the  outhouses 
were  the  same — nails  in  the  beams  to  hang  the  bass  brooms 
on,  and  all  that  kind  6f  thing. 

Uncle  and  aunt  were  crazy  about  orderliness  and  method. 
Never  in  my  life  did  I  hear  either  of  them  say  they  had 
lost  anything.  They  were  frightfully  punctual,  too^  Old 
aunt  used  to  bend  her  knees  before  sitting  on  the  church 
pew  at  exactly  the  same  second  every  Sunday  in  the  year. 
I  am  sure  she  believed  that  if  she  had  been  a  moment  late 
Peter  would  have  bolted  the  gates  of  heaven  on  her  for 
good  and  all. 

We  never  knew  anybody  worth  knowing;  all  their  friends 
were  frightfully  plain,  and  the  servants  were  simply  chronic. 
They  were  the  "Now,  Master  Dorian,  you  mustn't  do 
that"  kind  of  servants. 

How  I  longed  for  a  decent  pal,  some  chap  I  could  talk 
to  or  go  strodding  with!  A  strod  is  a  catapult,  you  know. 
I  invented  the  word  myself;  I  had  to  keep  it  jolly  dark 
that  I  had  a  strod.  Sometimes  I  used  to  steal  out  early 
in  the  morning  and  go  and  smash  bottles  on  the  big  rub- 
bish heap  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away.  But  it  wasn't  much 
fun  when  there  was  no  one  to  sing  out,  "Good  shot!"  or, 
"Bossed!"  and  that  sort  of  thing.  Things  weren't  much 
better  when  the  last  governess  went  and  I  was  "put  with" 
the  vicar's  class. 

There  were  about  five  other  boys  there,  rotten,  swotting 
chaps  with  round  spectacles  and  pimples.  I  think  they 
hated  me  because  I  was  tall  and  had  wavy  hair  and — 
well,  my  pater  was  jolly  good-looking,  and  people  used  to 
say  I  was  very  like  him. ,  Then,  again,  they  were  fed  up  with 
me  because  I  used  to  say  potty  things  about  how  stunning 
the  rhododendrons  looked  and  how  the  water  seemed  to 
laugh  in  the  mill  brook.  They  said  I  was  putting  on  side, 
but  I  wasn't  really.  I  couldn't  help  noticing  all  the  jolly 


RED  AND  WHITE  281 

| 

colours  and  sounds  in  the  country,  and  I  don't  see  any 
reason  why  a  chap  shouldn't  talk  about  'em.  They  are 
much  more  interesting  than  pencil-boxes  or  nibs. 

From  the  way  they  mugged  at  their  lessons  they  ought 
to  have  been  awfully  clever.  They  hadn't  eyes  or  ears  for 
anything  else.  I  remember  once,  after  I  had  seen  a  croc- 
odile of  girls  from  the  high  school  go  by, — one  or  two  were 
so  pretty  that  I'd  have  liked  to  speak  to  them;  I  have 
hardly  ever  spoken  to  a  girl, — I  asked  one  of  these  chaps 
— his  name  was  Clumber;  a  hideous  sort  of  name,  which 
just  suited  him — if  he  had  ever  kissed  a  girl,  and  what  it 
was  like. 

"Don't  be  beastly,"  he  said. 

I  said  that  I  couldn't  see  anything  beastly  in  it,  and 
thought  it  would  be  jolly  nice,  if  she  was  pretty. 

"It's  beastly  to  talk  about  those  things,"  was  all  he 
answered. 

I  am  sure,  if  uncle  and  aunt  had  had  a  son,  he'd  have 
been  just  like  old  Clumber.  But  whoever  it  is  who  ar- 
ranges these  things  knew,  I  expect,  that  it  would  be  a 
rotten  scrt  of  family  for  a  boy,  and  so  they  never  sent  one 
along. 

Orderliness,  method,  and  routine  are  things  that  any  de- 
cent boy  properly  hates.  What  he  wants  is  plenty  of 
fun  and  some  one  to  be  jolly  sympathetic  with  him  when 
he  feels  down. 

There  was  no  sympathy  with  uncle  and  aunt.  It  was 
what  I  should  call  a  no-kissing  household.  Uncle  didn't 
approve  of  kissing,  and  aunt  kissed  people  only  after  they 
were  dead.  They  wouldn't  have  let  her  do  it  if  they  had 
been  alive. 

The  only  person  who  ever  kissed  me  was  the  old  doctor 
who  had  attended  my  mother. 

Uncle  used  to  spend  the  entire  day  in  his  study,  and 
aunt,  when  she  had  finished  her  orders  and  had  a  good 
pry  round  for  dust,  did  parish  calls,  or  knitting  with  grey 
wool.  They  never  spent  much  time  together. 

The  most  exciting  thing  that  ever  happened  was  when 
uncle  bought  the  motor-car.  He  used  it  for  visiting  some 


282   THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

of  his  property,  and  as  he  was  too  mean  to  keep  a  chauffeur 
and  in  a  blue  funk  of  driving  himself,  he  had  me  taught. 

Once  a  year  their  niece  Elizabeth  came  down  to  spend 
a  few  days.  I  never  took  much  notice  of  her  because  aunt 
trotted  her  round  all  day.  Besides,  she  wasn't  my  sort. 
She  was  a  flat  little  thing,  and  I  always  suspected  her  of 
telling  tales;  so  her  visits  were  hardly  an  event.  Never- 
theless, it  was  through  her  that  the  wonderful  day  came 
about. 

At  the  end  of  the  summer  term,  a  few  days  before  she 
was  expected,  aunt  had  a  letter  at  breakfast  and  said: 

"Jane  asks  if  Elizabeth  may  bring  a  school  friend  with 
her  on  Friday.  Apparently  she  is  staying  with  them  for  the 
holidays,  and  as  Jane  wants  to  shut  up  house  for  a  few 
weeks,  it  will  be  awkward  if  we  can't  have  her." 

"Can't  she  go  to  her  own  people?"  said  uncle. 

"Apparently  she  is  an  orphan.  Jane  took  it  for  granted 
we  would  not  refuse,  because  she  says  here  that  Miss  Muriel 
O'Reagh  has  some  relatives  at  Felton  who  want  her  and 
Elizabeth  to  go  over  there  on  Friday  night." 

"Oh,  well,  if  you  can  arrange  it,"  said  uncle. 

"Dorian  could  drive  them  there  in  the  car  and  see  that 
they  come  home  in  good  time." 

"So  long  as  I'm  not  bothered  with  a  whole  lot  of  de- 
tails," said  uncle. 

I  felt  rather  a  thrill  at  the  idea  of  this  strange  girl  coming 
to  stay  with  us,  but  my  spirits  fell  a  bit  when  I  thought 
she  would  most  likely  turn  out  a  second  Elizabeth,  only 
more  so. 

Well,  on  Friday,  about  midday,  I  started  up  the  car  and 
went  off  to  the  station.  Aunt  would  have  come,  but  as  it 
was  only  a  two-seater,  with  a  dicky  behind,  and  I  had  to 
collect  two  people,  she  stayed  at  home. 

It  was  a  simply  lovely  morning,  birds  singing  like  blazes 
and  the  sun  shining  like  old  fits.  I  felt  in  no  end  of  a  jolly 
state  of  mind,  and  I  took  some  of  the  corners  on  the  way 
in  fine  style.  I  arrived  at  the  station  ten  minutes  too  soon, 
so  I  walked  up  and  down  the  platform  waiting  for  the 
train.  Presently  I  heard  it  in  the  distance,  and  knew  in 


RED  AND  WHITE  283 

another  few  minutes  Elizabeth's  face  would  be  at  a  car- 
riage window,  in  an  awful  stew  for  fear  there  would  be  no 
one  to  meet  her.  When  the  train  pulled  in  there  was  no 
sign  of  Elizabeth,  however,  but  looking  out  of  one  of  the 
carriage  windows  was  the  loveliest  girl  I  had  ever  seen. 
!  She  had  a  little,  white,  oval  face,  and  her  hair  was  the 
colour  of  old  copper  the  day  before  it's  cleaned.  Reddy 
gold,  you  know,  with  bluey  lights  on  it.  Her  eyes  were 
green — tha  cert  of  green  turquoises  get  if  you  wash  them.  I 
don't  know  how  to  describe  these  things;  I  only  know  that 
nothing  in  heaven  could  hold  a  candle  to  her. 

I  forgot  all  about  Elizabeth,  and  ran  to  the  place  op- 
posite which  her  carriage  had  stopped  just  to  have  another 
look.  It  seemed  pretty  certain  she  wouldn't  get  out  at 
our  potty  little  station,  so  I  had  to  make  the  most  of  her 
while  she  lasted. 

Then  the  most  extrordinary  thing  happened.  She  opened 
the  carriage  door  and  stepped  out,  and  there  behind  her,  sit- 
ting on  the  seat  and  looking  very  strange,  was  Elizabeth. 

Of  course,  when  I  saw  that,  I  made  a  dash  for  the  car- 
riage door,  and  she — the  she,  not  Elizabeth — asked: 

"Are  you  Dorian  Festubert?" 

Although  I  could  scarcely  speak,  I  managed  to  say  I  was. 

"But  you  are  not  Muriel  O'Reagh,  are  you?"  I  said. 

"Why  not?" 

"I — I  didn't  think  you  possibly  could  be." 

"Elizabeth  has  been  taken  ill,"  she  said,  as  if  she  had 
suddenly  remembered  her,  "with  a  most  dreadful  headache." 

Well,  I  pulled  myself  together  at  that,  and  pretended  to 
be  awfully  bucked  to  see  Elizabeth.  She  certainly  did  look 
jolly  ill.  Her  face  was  a  sort  of  pasty  white,  with  red 
blotches  on  it.  It  was  simply  frightful  to  look  at  her  after 
Muriel  O'Reagh;  so  I  just  turned  and  looked  the  right  way. 

Then  Muriel  said: 

"Hadn't  you  better  get  out  our  bags?  The  train'll  be 
moving  in  a  minute." 

It  sounded  ripping  as  she  said  it,  though  it  doesn't  "look 
up  to"  much  written  down. 

I  managed  to  hitch  old  Elizabeth  on  to  the  platform, 


284  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

where  she  tottered  about  like  one  o'clock;  and  to  show 
how  strong  I  was,  I  got  hold  of  all  their  luggage,  and  por- 
tered  it  myself  to  the  car  in  one  go.  I  never  felt  prouder 
than  while  I  was  carrying  Muriel's  bag.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  she  didn't  notice  me  much,  because  she  was  aiding 
old  Elizabeth's  faltering  footsteps. 

It  was  rather  jolly  being  in  sole  charge  of  the  car,  but 
unfortunately,  Elizabeth  being  ill,  I  had  to  ask  her  to  sit 
beside  me.  Muriel  was  on  the  dicky-seat  behind,  and  as 
it  was  not  too  safe,  I  drove  home  pretty  carefully — for  me. 
Just  once  I  brought  off  rather  a  showy  bit  of  steering  be- 
tween a  dog-cart  and  a  hay-wain.  Elizabeth  let  go  a 
scream,  but  Muriel  didn't;  so  I  knew  she  was  plucky  as 
well  as  perfectly  lovely. 

When  we  arrived  at  the  house,  aunt  came  out,  and  made 
no  end  of  a  fuss  at  the  sight  of  Elizabeth  and  declared  she 
must  go  straight  to  bed;  she  took  scarcely  any  notice  of 
Muriel. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  they  were  to  share  a  room,  but 
aunt  said,  as  Elizabeth  might  have  something  catching, 
Muriel  must  sleep  in  another,  which  was  down  the  same 
corridor  as  mine. 

I  carried  up  her  things,  and  loosened  the  straps  so  she 
wouldn't  have  to  bother.  There  was  a  jolly  spray  of  tea- 
roses  growing  outside  the  window,  and  I  cut  it  off,  and  put 
it  in  the  water- jug  to  make  things  look  cheerful.  I  was 
going  to  wait  for  her  to  come  up;  but  just  then  I  heard 
aunt  calling,  so  I  had  to  chuck  that  scheme. 

I  was  to  go  and  fetch  the  doctor  at  once,  said  aunt,  be- 
cause "Miss  O'Reagh"  thought  it  was  measles  Elizabeth 
had  got.  They  had  had  it  badly  at  school,  and  Elizabeth 
was  the  only  one  who  had  escaped. 

I  was  pretty  fed  up  at  having  to  go  out,  especially  as  the 
doctor  lived  five  miles  away;  so  I  suggested  that  Muriel 
might  enjoy  the  ride.  But  aunt  said  certainly  not;  that 
she  would  be  busy  putting  away  her  things  until  lunch- 
time. 

Then  I  remembered  how  aunt  always  inspected  visitors* 
rooms  to  see  that  they  had  arranged  everything  as  she 


RED  AND  WHITE  285 

thought  proper.  I  sort  of  guessed  Muriel  would  fling  her 
clothes  about  a  bit,  so  I  pretended  I  had  left  my  cap  on 
the  bed,  and  slipped  up-stairs  to  give  her  the  tip. 

The  door  of  her  room  was  open.  She  had  taken  off  her 
hat,  and  the  sun  was  shining  on  her  head.  Then  I  noticed 
that  she  seemed  to  have  two  sorts  of  hair,  the  smooth  sort 
that  went  all  over  her  head  like  a  little,  wavy  cap,  and  just 
above  that  a  kind  of  dancy  fluff  that  reminded  me  of  halos 
in  Bible  pictures. 

I  must  have  looked  rather  a  fool  standing  there  staring, 
but  she  didn't  seem  to  mind.  She  looked  at  me,  too,  with 
her  sad,  green  eyes,  and  presently  she  said: 

"You  are  tall,  Dorian." 

I  didn't  know  what  to  answer,  so  I  just  blurted  out  about 
aunt's  fussings  around. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said.  "I  should  have  thrown  every- 
thing about  if  you  hadn't  warned  me." 

"I  have  to  fetch  the  doctor,"  I  told  her.  "Would  you 
like  to  have  a  walk  this  afternoon?" 

"Rather!" 

"Right-o.    After  lunch,  then." 

When  I  brought  back  the  doctor,  and  he  said  there  was 
no  doubt  Elizabeth  had  the  measles,  uncle  got  into  an  awful 
stew,  because  he  couldn't  remember  if  he  had  ever  had  it 
or  not. 

He  wouldn't  let  aunt  go  near  the  room,  for  fear  she 
would  "take  it,"  so  he  said;  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  it  was 
because  he  was  frightened  of  catching  it  from  her  if  she 
did. 

The  conversation  at  lunch  was  simply  awful.  I  felt 
frightfully  ashamed  of  both  of  them.  They  made  it  quite 
plain  that  Muriel's  being  there  was,  "under  the  circum- 
stances, most  unfortunate."  As  usual  they  jumped  down 
my  throat  every  time  I  spoke  a  word,  and,  what  was  worse, 
uncle  corrected  me  twice  for  table  manners. 

"I  shall  be  out  this  afternoon,"  said  aunt,  "and  Mr. 
Ransart  will  be  busy  in  his  study  [Asleep,  that  meant]. 
I  hope  you  are  interested  in  reading,  for  there  will  be  little 
else  for  you  to  do." 


286  THE  GREAT  MODERN,  ENGLISH  STORIES 

"Thank  you,"  said  Muriel.  "Perhaps  if  I  might  sit  in 
the  garden  with  a  book " 

Then  aunt  fetched  a  bound  copy  of  "The  Churchman," 
and  went  off  to  her  meeting.  Uncle  went  to  his  study,  and 
Muriel,  looking  very  crestfallen,  sat  under  the  shade  of  a 
tidy  little  tree  and  pretended  to  read. 

After  giving  aunt  and  uncle  about  twenty  minutes  to  get 
off,  I  slipped  out  into  the  garden  and  joined  her. 

"Are  you  enjoying  that  book?"  I  asked. 

"No." 

"Did  you  like  uncle  and  aunt?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"It  must  be  awful  to  live  with  them,"  she  said. 

"I  should  think  it  is!"  I  answered. 

"Have  you  always?" 

I  nodded. 

"Ever  since  I  was  a  baby.  My  mother  died  when  I  was 
born,  and  so  my  father  shot  himself." 

"How  splendid!"  she  said,  with  her  eyes  very  wide  open. 
"My  mother  and  father  were  like  that,  too.  They  lived 
in  India, — I  came  home  when  I  was  five,  you  know, — and 
he  got  cholera.  Mother  would  nurse  him,  although  they 
begged  her  not  to.  She  knew  he  was  going  to  die,  and 
she  didn't  want  to  be  left  behind." 

"That's  what  I  call  love,"  said  I,  "but  it's  a  little  sad 
for  us.  Who  looks  after  you  now?" 

"School-mistresses  in  the  term-time,  and  in  the  holidays 
generally  some  one  is  hired  by  my  guardian." 

"Who's  your  guardian?     Is  he  nice?" 

"He's  a  firm  of  solicitors;  that's  all." 

I  waited  for  a  minute  before  saying: 

"I  wish  they'd  engage  me." 

"I  wish  they  would.    I'd  like  that." 

"Would  you?" 

"U-m." 

"Do  you  like  me,  then?" 

"Yes,  awfully." 

"How  lovely!     I  don't  think  anybody  ever  has  before." 

"Why  not?    I  shouldn't  have  thought  they  could  help  it." 


RED  AND  WHITE  287 

"Uncle  and  aunt  seem  to  help  it  all  right,"  I  said. 

"Poor  you!" 

Then  I  asked: 

"Haven't  you  any  one,  either,  who  makes  a  fuss  over 
you?" 

"No." 

"Isn't  it  funny?     We  are  just  alike." 

"I  suppose  a  boy  doesn't  mind  so  much." 

"Doesn't  he,  just?  I  can  tell  you  he  does.  It's  awful 
sometimes.  I  used  to  think  it  was  bad  when  I  was  little,  but 
it's  much  worse  now.  Often  I  lie  in  bed  and  long  and 
long — i  don't  rightly  know  what  I  long  for.  Perhaps  it's 
my  mother,  or,  at  any  rate,  somebody  to  love  me.  Do  you 
know?" 

"U-m.  I  feel  like  that  often.  It's  horrid  to  be  lonely, 
and  to  know  you  just  must  be  lonely  and  there's  no  help 
for  it." 

She  had  the  sweetest  way  of  saying  things  I  ever  heard. 

"I  have  never  talked  to  a  girl  before,"  I  told  her — "not 
really  talked." 

"I've  never  really  talked  to  a  boy,  but  I've  often  wanted 
to.  Do  you  mind  being  called  a  boy?" 

"No;  I'd  rather.  Aunt  speaks  of  me  as  a  'youth,'  and 
uncle  as  a  'growing  lad.'  Don't  you  think  that  they  are 
horrible  words?" 

"Almost  as  bad  as  a  young  lady." 

"That's  bad  enough.    How  old  are  you?" 

"Sixteen." 

"I'm  that,  too— sixteen  and  a  bit.  It's  a  jolly  age.  I  don't 
want  to  grow  much  older.  Did  you  hear  aunt  correct 
me  for  calling  you  Muriel?  You  didn't  mind,  did  you?" 

"I'd  sooner  you  called  me  Mooly." 

"Would  you  really?" 

"Yes;  because  nobody  ever  has." 

I  can't  tell  you  what  it  was  like  calling  her  Mooly  for 
the  first  time,  and  when  she  decided  that  I  should  be  Dory 
instead  of  Dorian,  I  wanted  to  hug  her. 

"Mooly,"  I  said,  "you  are  the  most  loveliest  and  dearestest 
girl  in  all  the  world,  and  I  love  you  always  and  absolutely." 


288  THE  GREAT  MODERN,  ENGLISH  STORIES 

"Oh,  I'm  glad  you  do,"  she  said,  "because  I  do  you,  too; 
and  if  you  hadn't,  I  should  have  been  as  miserable  as 
wretched  could  be." 

"Then  you  needn't,"  I  cried  out,  "because  I  adore  you 
twice  as  much  as  I  did  a  minute  ago."  And  I  took  her 
hand,  which  was  little  and  pink  and  warm,  and  held  it  in 
mine  for  simply  ages,  and  neither  of  us  said  a  word. 

It  seems  funny,  but  being  frightfully  happy  makes  one 
stop  talking.  All  sorts  of  glorious  thoughts  pour  into  your 
head;  but  when  you  try  and  put  them  into  words,  they 
won't  come  good  enough.  They  stop  at  the  back  of  your 
throat  and  make  you  gulp.  But  every  time  a  thought  comes 
you  know  and  she  knows,  because  you  hold  each  other's 
hands  a  wee  bit  tighter,  and  all  the  unsaid  words  thrill 
backward  and  forward  through  your  fingers. 

When  I  spoke  at  last  it  wasn't  in  the  least  the  sort  of 
thing  you'd  have  expected. 

"I  was  going  to  drive  you  over  to  Felton  to-night  in 
the  car." 

"Yes.    Won't  it  be  nice?" 

"I  expect,  now  Elizabeth's  ill,  aunt'll  try  and  stop  us 
going.  It  wouldn't  be  a  bad  idea  to  ask  her  to  come, 
too." 

"But  s'pose  she  says  'Yes'?" 

"She  won't.  But  perhaps  she  wouldn't  stop  us  going  if 
you  asked  her.  D'you  see?" 

"I'll  ask  her,  then." 

After  that  we  went  for  a  walk  round  the  grounds,  and 
I  showed  her  all  the  hiding-places  I  had  made  when  I 
was  a  kid.  There  was  one  in  the  middle  of  some  rhodo- 
dendron-bushes where  I  had  plaited  branches  and  made  a 
secret  wigwam.  In  one  corner  was  a  tiny  cemetery  of  pets 
I  had  had  who  died:  a  bullfinch,  two  white  mice,  and  a 
little  robin  that  was  half  tame  and  used  to  eat  crumbs  out 
of  my  hand.  There  was  an  oyster-shell  at  the  head  of 
each  grave,  and  on  the  anniversaries  of  their  deaths  I  used 
to  put  down  very  small  wreaths  of  lawn  daisies.  It  seemed 
so  strange  to  be  telling  any  one  about  these  things,  which 
I  had  never  spoken  of  before;  but  somehow,  once  I  was 


RED  AND  WHITE  289 

started,  I  could  say  anything  I  liked  to  Mooly,  and  she 
could  do  just  the  same  with  me. 

By  the  time  tea  came  we  hadn't  any  secrets  left  at 
all. 

"About  this  visit  to  your  friends  at  Felton,"  said  aunt. 

"Yes,"  said  Mooly;  "I  was  going  to  ask  if  you  could 
come,  too,  Mrs.  Ransart." 

"That  would  be  impossible,"  she  answered;  but  what 
Mooly  said  had  saved  the  situation,  for  I  know  she  was 
going  to  stop  us.  As  it  was,  she  let  us  go,  after  giving  us  all 
sorts  of  instructions,  and  insisting  we  should  not  be  later 
than  nine-thirty. 

At  six  o'clock  I  started  up  the  car,  and  away  we  drove. 
And  what  a  drive  it  was!  We  just  whizzed  along,  and 
there  was  Mooly  close  beside  me,  with  her  lovely  red  hair 
blowing  across  my  face.  I  felt  I  wanted  to  sing ;  I  did  sing, 
and  all  the  woods  and  the  fields  seemed  to  be  singing,  too. 
Of  course,  I  went  miles  out  of  the  way,  and  we  didn't  turn 
up  until  quarter  to  eight. 

They  were  real  nice  people,  those  friends  of  Mooly's 
father  and  mother.  They  gave  us  a  top-hole  dinner,  and 
actually  had  the  decency  to  chuck  me  over  a  case  of  ciga- 
rettes. 

There  was  a  sort  of  ripping  disorder  about  the  house. 
Not  untidy,  you  know,  but  homish,  as  if  people  kept  every- 
thing where  they  liked  it  best.  I  saw  a  pair  of  slippers 
under  an  easy-chair,  and  when  one  of  the  sons,  who  was 
a  bit  late  for  dinner,  came  in,  he  kicked  off  his  shoes  in  the 
hall  and  yelled  to  one  of  the  servants  to  sling  him  down 
a  pair  of  pumps.  That's  what  I  call  living.  I  tried  to  pic- 
ture aunt's  face  if  I  were  to  have  done  the  same. 

It  was  simply  rotten  having  to  leave  at  nine  o'clock,  and 
if  it  hadn't  been  that  Mooly  and  I  were  to  be  together,  I 
should  have  chanced  the  row  and  stayed  a  bit  longer. 

After  saying  good-by  about  twice  all  round,  we  hopped 
into  the  car  and  started  for  home.  The  moon  was  out,  and 
the  stars  looked  bright  and  winky,  and  there  was  a  husky 
sort  of  feeling  in  the  air.  It  was  a  wee  bit  cold,  so  Mooly 
nestled  up  very  close,  and  as  there  was  a  foot-accelerator, 


290  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

I  drove  with  one  hand,  and  put  my  other  arm  round  her 
shoulder. 

"I  am  happy,  Dory,"  she  said. 

And  I  whispered: 

"So  am  I.  I  feel  as  if  we  are  all  alone  in  the  world." 

"Wouldn't  it  be  lovely  if  we  could  drive  on  like  this  until 
the  dawn  comes." 

"I  wish  we  could  forever,"  I  said. 

Then  for  nearly  two  miles  we  said  nothing,  and  I  thought 
of  the  glorious  week  we  would  spend  together. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  when  you  go,  Mooly," 
I  said  at  last. 

"We  mustn't  even  think  of  that.  You  look  so  big  and 
splendid  in  the  moonlight,  Dory." 

"Shall  I  tell  you  how  beautiful  you  are?"  I  asked;  and 
when  she  said  "Yes,"  I  turned  my  head  to  look  down  on 
her,  so  that  I  could  see  every  little  feature  that  I  wanted 
to  praise,  and  the  car  ran  into  a  heap  of  stones  and  burst 
the  front  tire. 

We  had  a  very  narrow  squeak  of  being  tipped  into  the 
road.  I  got  out  at  once  to  see  what  had  happened.  The 
old  tire  had  gone  badly. 

"There's  a  spare  tube  in  the  back,"  I  said.  "Ill  whip 
this  off  and  put  it  on." 

So  I  got  a  jack  and  some  levers  from  under  the  seat,  and 
after  about  ten  minutes  had  the  burst  tube  out, 

Mooly  sat  on  the  stone  heap  and  watched  while  I  worked, 
and  I  told  her  she  was  like  a  fairy  on  a  toadstool. 

Of  course,  when  I  opened  the  box  at  the  back  of  the 
car,  I  found  the  other  tube  had  been  left  at  home. 

"Isn't  it  there?"  she  asked. 

I  shook  my  head. 

"I  say,  I'm  awfully  sorry,  but  we  shall  have  to  walk.  It 
won't  take  long  across  the  fields;  then  I  can  fetch  a  step- 
ney wheel  and  come  back  for  the  car.  I  was  a  fool  to  run 
into  those  stones." 

"You  couldn't  help  it,"  she  said. 

Then  I  took  her  hand,  and  we  started  off  along  a  little 
path  through  the  green  wheat. 


RED  AND  WHITE  291 

"I  like  this  best,  Dory,"  she  said.  "It's  just  as  if  we 
were  Adam  and  Eve." 

"Just,"  I  answered;  "only  I'm  sure  Eve  wasn't  half  so 
lovely  as  you  are." 

"Do  you  love  me  a  lot,  Dory?" 

"If  I  were  to  try  and  tell  you  how  much,  Mooly,  you'd 
never  believe." 

"But  I  should  like  you  to  try." 

So  I  tried,  and  told  her  that  I  loved  her  like  two  look- 
ing-glasses opposite  each  other  which  reflected  backward 
and  forward,  forward  and  backward,  until  at  last  they  came 
to  a  tiny  grey  point  no  bigger  than  a  midge's  eye  and  too 
small  for  any  one  to  see. 

"And  that's  forever,  Mooly,"  I  said,  and  looking  up,  I 
found  we'd  arrived  home,  and  there  was  a  light  in  the  din- 
ing-room window,  where  aunt  was  sitting  waiting  for  us. 

When  I  saw  it  I  turned  to  Mooly. 

"We  had  better  say  good  night  now,  because  when  I've 
taken  you  in  I  must  go  back  for  the  car." 

"You  promise  to  take  great,  great  care  of  yourself?" 

"Of  course." 

"I  sha'n't  go  to  sleep  until  I  know  you  are  safely  back, 
and  I  shall  be  thinking  about  tramps  all  the  time." 

"I'll  just  tap  at  your  door  to  show  I'm  all  right.  Shall 
I?" 

"Yes,  please." 

"Then  good  night,  now." 

"Goo'  night,  Dory." 

"Mooly,  I — I  want  to  kiss  you  awfully.    May  I?" 

"I  want  you  to." 

And  I  did,  and  it  was  like — oh,  I  don't  know  what  it  was 
like,  but  never  anything  so  sweet  had  ever  happened  to 
me  before.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  felt  happy 
all  over — so  happy  that  I  wanted  to  cry. 

We  went  in  and  explained  to  aunt  what  had  happened. 
It  was  half-past  ten,  and  although  she  was  better  about  it 
than  I  expected,  she  was  pretty  shirty. 

"Go  to  bed  as  quickly  as  you  can,"  she  told  Mooly.  "And 
you,  Dorian,  must  lose  no  time  in  bringing  back  the  car. 


292   THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

When  you  do  come  in  don't  make  a  noise  and  disturb  your 
uncle. " 

As  I  was  crossing  the  hall  I  heard  her  saying: 

"Mr.  Ransart  and  I  have  decided,  in  the  circumstances, 
it  will  be  best  fof  you  to  return  to  my  sister  in  the  morning." 

I  spun  round  as  if  I  had  been  shot,  and  walked  back  to 
the  room. 

"What  is  it,  Dorian?" 

"I— I  thought  you  called  me,"  I  lied. 

"I  did  nothing  of  the  kind.  Please  hurry.  We  don't  want 
to  be  up  all  night." 

And  as  there  was  nothing  I  could  say  I  just  went.  In 
a  kind  of  a  dream  I  got  that  beastly  stepney  wheel,  and 
tramped  back  over  those  hateful  fields. 

Mooly  was  going  to-morrow — my  Mooly.  She  was  go- 
ing away,  and  perhaps  I  should  never  see  her  again. 

I  think  I  felt  then  as  my  father  felt  when  mother  died. 
I  just  banged  the  old  stepney  on  anyhow,  chucked  the 
tools  into  the  car,  jerked  up  the  starting-handle,  and  flung 
myself  into  the  driver's  seat. 

It  was  about  two  miles  by  road  and  I  went  as  recklessly 
as  I  could,  and  didn't  care.  I  only  just  missed  hitting  the 
parapet  of  the  little  bridge  and  landing  in  the  stream  be- 
low. I  was  sorry  I  had  missed.  I  wished  I 'could  drive 
over  a  precipice  or  fling  myself  under  a  train. 

Then  I  remembered  my  promise  to  Mooly  to  be  careful, 
and  slowed  up  a  bit. 

Did  she  mind  as  much  as  I  was  minding?  Was  she  as 
miserable  as  I  was?  No  one  could  be. 

Up  the  drive  I  went,  skidded  into  the  garage,  kicked  up 
the  switch  of  the  headlight,  and  walked  into  the  house. 

How  vile  it  looked,  the  tidy  umbrella-stand,  the  silly 
plate  with  the  visiting-cards,  and  the  row  of  brushes  hang- 
ing on  brass  hooks!  I  loathed  it  all;  I  would  like  to  have 
set  the  whole  place  on  fire. 

I  went  to  my  bedroom  and  dragged  off  my  clothes.  In  the 
looking-glass  I  saw  that  my  face  was  filthy  with  smears  of 
oil  on  it  that  made  me  furious.  So  I  shoved  on  a  dressing- 
gown  and,  collaring  my  pajamas,  went  off  to  have  a  bath. 


RED  AND  WHITE  293 

I  honestly  believe  that  bath  saved  me  from  doing  some- 
thing violent,  for  under  the  warm  water  I  lost  my  horrible 
resentfulness  and  could  think  only  of  what  a  wonderful  day 
it  had  been  and  remember  that  never-to-be-forgotten  good 
night  in  the  garden.  Then  I  dried  myself,  put  on  my 
pajamas  and  dressing-gown,  brushed  my  hair,  and  turned 
off  the  light. 

As  I  passed  down  the  passage  I  could  hear  uncle  and 
aunt  having  their  snoring  competition.  Aunt's  was  the 
worse  by  a  long  chalk.  She  had  a  frantic  habit  of  leaving 
off  for  a  second  or  two,  then  giving  a  kind  of  "snork"  like 
a  pig.  Often  I  thanked  Heaven  my  room  was  a  long  way 
from  theirs,  because  once,  when  there  was  a  spring  cleaning 
and  I  moved  to  one  next  door,  I  couldn't  sleep  all  night 
for  the  vile  row  they  made. 

I  blew  out  the  candle  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  and  turned 
down  the  passage  leading  to  my  room. 

Outside  Mooly's  door  I  stopped.  The  moon  was  shining 
on  her  two  little  shoes  put  out  to  be  cleaned.  I  picked 
them  up  and  kissed  them. 

"She's  asleep  by  now,"  I  thought.  "It  would  wake  her 
up  if  I  kept  my  promise  and  knocked. "  Oh,  how  I  longed 
to  hear  her  voice  just  once  more!  But  I  was  very  strong- 
minded,  and,  so  as  not  to  make  a  sound,  I  stooped  down( 
and  put  the  shoes  back  in  their  place  as  quietly  as  a  mouse. 
And  then  I  saw  that  there  was  a  wee  flicker  of  light  com- 
ing ^hrough  the  crack  under  the  door.  My  heart  gave  a  big 
thump.  She  wasn't  asleep,  then,  or  perhaps  she  had  fallen 
asleep  and  left  the  candle  burning.  That  thought  made 
me  awfully  panicky.  Suppose  the  candle  fell  over  and  set 
fire  to  the  bed. 

I  stood  a  long  time  biting  my  nails  and  wondering  what 
to  do.  At  last  I  made  up  my  mind.  I  would  knock  ever 
so  softly,  and  if  she  didn't  answer,  I  would  steal  into  the 
room  and  blow  out  the  light. 

Taking  a  deep  breath,  I  tapped  just  once,  and  in  an  in- 
stant I  heard: 

"That  you,  Dory?," 

"Yes  " 


294  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

"Oh,  I've  been  so  frightened.  I  thought  you'd  had  an 
accident.  I  never  heard  you  come  back." 

"I'm  all  right,  Mooly.    Good  night,  dear." 

"Won't  you  come  and  kiss  me  good  night?" 

And  that  w£s  what  I  had  prayed  and  prayed  she  would 
say. 

She  was  sitting  up  in  bed  when  I  stole  in,  and  her  lovely 
hair  was  on  her  shoulders  like  a  shawl;  but  I  saw  that  her 
eyes  were  all  wet  and  dim. 

"Have  you  been  crying?" 

"Yes;  because  I  was  afraid,  and  because " 

"Because  you  are  going  away  from  me  to-morrow?" 

She  bit  her  lower  lip  and  nodded,  and  I  broke  out  with: 

"O  Mooly,  Mooly,  when  I  'think  of  it  I  want  to  cry,  too!" 

And  I  sat  down  by  the  bed,  and  I  kissed  her,  and  she 
kissed  me,  and  we  clung  to  each  other  so  tightly  that  we 
could  hardly  breathe. 

"This  is  like  years  ago,  when  I  was  five,"  she  said  at  last. 

"It's  like  never  before  with  me,"  I  answered;  "but  I 
know  now  that  what  I've  always  longed  for  was  this." 

After  a  while  she  dropped  her  head  on  the  pillow  and 
my  arm  was  round  her  neck  and  my  head  beside  hers. 

"Isn't  this  lovely?"  she— what  is  the  word?  Is  it 
"crooned?"  I  don't  think  there  is  a  right  one.  I  only 
know  I  could  scarcely  hear  what  she  said,  but  I  could  feel 
it  against  my  cheek. 

And  so  we  remained  for  ever  so  long,  and  both  my  slip- 
pers fell  off  to  the  floor,  and  the  candle  burned  very  low. 

"It's  worth  having  been  lonely  for  years  not  to  be  lonely 
now,"  I  whispered.  "Did  two  people  ever  before  love  each 
other  as  much  as  we  do?" 

I  felt  her  shake  her  head  in  the  dark,  for  the  candle 
flickered  and  went  out  as  I  spoke.  I  held  her  a  little  tighter 
then,  because  I  couldn't  see  her  any  longer,  and  she  sighed 
in  a  way  that  sounded  happier  than  anything  in  the  world. 

It's  hard  to  talk  in  the  dark,  so  we  didn't  try,  and  the 
time  stole  on;  after  a  long,  long  while  I  knew  that  she  was 
asleep.  Then,  oh,  more  gently  than  you  would  believe,  I 
put  my  cheek  against  hers  and  closed  my  eyes. 


RED  AND  WHITE  295 

It  was  broad  daylight  when  I  was  wakened  by  a  hand 
shaking  my  shoulder.  Looking  up,  I  saw  uncle  standing 
by  the  bed.  A  little  way  off  was  aunt,  and  her  mouth  was 
dosed  so  tight  that  it  had  almost  disappeared.  I  could  see 
uncle  was  furious;  but  before  he  could  speak  I  said: 

"Hush!     Don't  wake  her  up! " 

"Take  him  away,"  said  aunt;  "I'll  remain  here." 

I  was  going  to  flare  up  at  that,  but  uncle,  who  was  very 
strong  when  he  liked,  clapped  a  hand  over  my  mouth  and, 
gripping  me  by  the  collar  of  my  dressing-gown,  dragged 
me  from  the  room. 

I  am  not  going  to  tell  any  more  of  this  story.  I  wouldn't 
repeat  a  word  uncle  said  to  me  if  you  paid  me  a  hundred 
million  pounds.  And  all  the  vile  time  he  was  talking  I  knew 
that  aunt  was  saying  the  same  hateful,  wicked  things  to 
Mooly. 

When  he  had  finished  he  locked  me  in  his  dressing-room. 
He  might  have  saved  himself  the  trouble,  for  I  shouldn't 
have  come  out  until  she  had  gone.  He  had  just  spoiled 
everything. 

And  now  you  know  why  if  I  met  Mooly  I  should  go  all 
red  and  she'd  go  all  white  and  we'd  talk  about  bicycles  or 
rubbish. 

I  heard  the  cab  that  took  her  away  soon  after  nine,  and 
I  just  stood  in  a  corner  and  choked  and  wished  I'd  never 
been  born.  It's  a  horrible,  hateful  world,  and  all  the  people 
in  it  excepting  Mooly  are  beastly,  beastly,  beastly. 


MAN  AND  BRUTE 

BY  E.  L.  GRANT  WATSON 


DOWN  the  long  white  road  that  leads  to  Armadale  a 
horseman  cantered  at  a  slow  and  regular  pace.  On 
either  side  of  him  stretched  the  limitless  scrub  of 
slender  eucalyptus  saplings.  The  green  and  pink  leaves  of 
the  trees  blended  to  a  delicate  mauve  in  the  evening  light. 
Overhead,  the  sky  flushed  from  crimson  to  orange-yellow 
as  the  sun  sank  behind  the  bleak  and  rugged  contour  of  an 
upstanding  hill.  That  day  the  horseman  had  ridden  some 
forty  miles  across  open  country,  and  both  he  and  his  beast 
were  tired.  Now  that  he  saw  the  white  roofs  of  Armadale 
lying  clustered  together  in  the  valley  below  him,  he  urged 
forward  his  horse  over  the  soft,  sandy  road.  He  had  reck- 
oned on  reaching  the  town  earlier  in  the  afternoon,  but 
had  been  delayed  on  the  journey  and  was  now  anxious  to 
make  up  for  lost  time.  Behind  him  a  cloud  of  dust  hung  in 
the  still  air.  The  thud  of  his  horse's  hoofs  and  the  occa- 
sional whistle  of  a  bird  were  the  only  sounds  that  broke 
the  stillness. 

When  he  entered  the  town  he  found  few  people  moving 
in  the  street,  but  he  shouted  to  the  first  man  that  he  met 
and  asked  his  way  to  the  doctor's  house.  He  reined  up 
for  a  few  moments  while  the  man  gave  him  his  directions, 
then  hurried  on  again. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  doctor  drove  his  sulky  at  a  fast 
trot  over  the  dusty  road.  By  that  time  darkness  was  set- 
tling upon  the  land,  night-moving  animals  were  stirring  in 
the  bush  on  either  side,  and  the  doctor  could  see  as  he 
drove  by  the  dark  forms  of  wallabies  crouching  in  the  grass. 

296 


MAN  AND  BRUTE  297 

The  first  miles,  over  the  made  road,  were  easy  going,  but 
then  difficulties  arose.  The  track  into  the  bush  on  the 
right  was  hard  to  find,  and  when  found  was  not  easy  to 
follow. 

Dr.  Laurence  was  a  man  unused  to  the  wild  life  of  bush 
country.  He  had  only  lately  come  from  Sydney  and  he 
was  always  a  little  nervous  of  crossing  open  scrub  after 
dark.  To  his  unaccustomed  eyes,  bushtracks  were  diffi- 
cult to  follow  at  the  best  of  times,  and  now,  when  he  turned 
off  the  road,  he  had  to  keep  all  his  wits  about  him  and 
not  let  his  hors£  stray  into  the  open  spaces  of  the  bush, 
which  stretched  out  in  grey  glades  and  avenues  on  either 
side.  Often  he  had  to  climb  down  from  his  seat  and  make 
sure  of  the  track  by  the  light  of  his  side  lanterns.  It 
was  necessary  here  to  go  at  a  slow  pace,  for  the  ground 
was  uneven  and  the  way  was  often  blocked  by  dead  tim- 
ber that  lay  rotting  where  it  had  fallen.  At  one  time  he 
was  even  minded  to  turn  back,  but  being  a  kindhearted 
and  generous  man,  he  pushed  on  in  spite  of  difficulties.  The 
thought  of  the  disabled  shepherd,  solitary  and  suffering, 
kept  him  to  his  resolution. 

After  a  laborious  hour  of  slow  travelling  he  came  to 
the  wire  fence  of  which  the  horseman  had  spoken.  In 
front  of  him  he  could  see  an  open  stretch  of  salt-bush 
country — bare,  open  ground  covered  by  stunted  whitei 
leaved  bushes.  Away- on  the  left  he  could  see  the  dark  line 
of  the  trees.  They  looked  massive  enough  in  the  darkness, 
but  he  knew  that,  like  most  of  the  Australian  bush,  they 
grew  sparse  and  feathery  on  the  dry  soil. 

While  he  was  tying  up  his  horse  he  became  conscious  of 
the  extreme  stillness  of  the  night.  Now  that  the  wheels 
of  the  sulky  no  longer  crunched  their  way  over  dead 
branches,  he  suddenly  felt  the  silence  as  if  it  were  a  con- 
crete and  tangible  thing.  The  trees  around  him  were  very 
still;  they  seemed  to  wait  in  suspense  as  if  afraid  of  rustling 
their  leaves.  His  horse  breathed  long,  hot  breaths.  There 
was  no  other  sound  but  the  cracking  of  a  twig  under  his 
own  foot.  As  he  lifted  down  his  bag  he  had  a  slight  re- 
gret that  he  must  leave  the  friendly  companionshop  of 


298  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

his  horse.  In  that  wild,  uncultivated  land  they  both  seemed 
such  insignificant  and  lonely  creatures  that  he  felt  it  im- 
provident that  they  should  separate. 

The  night  was  cloudless,  and  overhead  the  sky  was  rich 
with  glittering  stars.  No  moon  shone,  but  in  the  starlight 
the  stunted  salt-bushes  looked  like  a  sea  of  grey  wool  which 
spread  flat  to  the  far  horizon,  where  it  mingled  with  the 
darker  tinted  depths  of  the  sky.  As  the  doctor  forced  his 
way  forward  he  disturbed  numberless  bandicoots  and  wall- 
abies, which  scuttled  or  leapt  hurriedly  away.  The  earth 
underfoot  seemed  to  be  swarming  with  life,  and  this  he 
felt  to  be  strange,  for  often  in  the  daytime  had  he  ridden 
across  such  open  stretches  of  country  and  had  been  sur- 
prised at  the  absence  of  animal  life.  But  now,  at  night, 
everything  was  changed — life  was  more  vigorous  and  more 
potent.  He  was  conscious  of  an  all-pervading  power  that 
brooded  over  the  land  and  which  lent  to  it  a  quality  of 
poignancy  and  sweetness  that  he  had  never  before  tasted. 
He  was  glad  then  that  he  had  come;  not  only  glad  to  be 
on  an  errand  of  mercy  and  performing  his  duty,  but  glad 
also  to  flavour  in  this  unexpected  way  the  rich  sweetness 
of  the  hushed  and  vigorous  earth. 

For  some  distance  he  walked  on,  keeping  always  in  sight 
of  the  line  of  trees  on  the  left.  Then  he  stood  still  and 
shouted.  His  voice  sounded  for  a  moment  very  resonant 
and  strong  in  the  night  air.  The  sound  died  abruptly 
as  if  lost  in  the  silence.  He  listened  for  an  answering 
shout,  but  heard  nothing.  Perhaps  he  had  kept  too  far 
out  in  the  open.  He  struck  in  towards  the  trees,  and  walked 
half  a  mile  further;  again  he  shouted,  but  got  no  answer. 

Again  he  walked  on  a  short  distance,  then  suddenly  he 
saw  the  shepherd's  hut  quite  close  to  him.  He  was  sur- 
prised at  finding  it  so  close  and  was  alarmed  that  there 
should  have  been  no  answer  to  his  call.  He  hurried  for- 
ward, and  as  he  approached  saw  that  the  door  was  standing 
ajar.  He  could  see  that  inside  the  hut  a  light  was  burning. 

The  silence,  which  at  first  had  awed  him,  but  which 
later  had  seemed  invigorating  and  refreshing,  was  again 
touched  with  fear.  The  small  building,  surrounded  as  it 


MAN  AND  BRUTE  299 

was  by  low  bushes  and  the  flat  expanse  of  desolate  plain, 
looked  strangely  insignificant.  So  small  an  evidence  of 
man's  energy  in  the  face  of  Nature's  greatness  was,  in 
the  all-enfolding  silence  of  the  night,  disheartening  and  al- 
most pathetic.  The  doctor  wondered  what  had  happened 
in  the  last  few  hours  in  that  tiny  space — why  had  he  re- 
ceived no  answer  to  his  call,  which  at  that  distance  must 
have  been  clearly  audible?  Had  he,  perhaps,  come  too 
late?  He  hurried  anxiously  forward  and  laid  his  hand 
upon  the  door. 

II 

Five  hours  previously  the  horseman,  who  was  to  fetch 
relief  to  the  sick  man,  had  galloped  away  and  the  old  shep- 
herd and  his  dog  had  looked  at  one  another  as  they  lis- 
tened to  the  sound  of  his  departing  horse's  hoofs.  As 
their  eyes  met  they  were  both  conscious  of  their  sudden 
loneliness.  The  dog  shifted  his  gaze  uneasily  and  looked 
round  the  hut;  it  was  a  small  protection  indeed,  a  tiny 
island  of  man's  foothold  in  the  midst  of  the  wide  expanse 
of  bush  that  stretched  in  all  directions.  On  the  ceiling 
of  the  hut  numberless  flies  were  crawling;  others  made  a 
monotonous  buzzing  in  the  hot  air.  The  shepherd  lay  still 
upon  his  bed,  crippled  by  his  sudden  illness.  After  a  while 
he  stretched  out  his  left  hand,  which  he  could  still  use,  and 
rested  it  awkwardly  upon  the  dog's  head. 
;  "Rover,"  he  muttered,  "you'll  stay  with  me.  You'll  stay 
with  me  till  help  comes.  I'm  ill,  boy.  Maybe  I'm  dying. 
I  can't  be  left  alone." 

The  dog  thrust  his  nose  into  the  man's  hand  and  whined. 
Then  he  jumped  up,  putting  his  forepaws  on  the  bed  ancf 
licked  at  his  master's  face. 

>     The  man  moved  with  difficulty  to  hold  him  off;   then 
groaned  at  a  stab  of  pain. 
,     "Get  down!     Get  down!"  he  said  gently. 

For  more  than  an  hour  the  old  shepherd  lay  still,  and 
the  dog  rested  his  shaggy  head  against  his  hand.  The  light 
slowly  died  out  of  the  sky  and  the  silence  became  complete 


300  THE  GREAT  MODERN^  ENGLISH  STORIES 

as  the  flies  gathered  upon  the  walls  and  ceiling  of  the  hut 
and  ceased  to  buzz.  The  sick  man  lay  awkwardly  upon  one 
side  as  if  twisted  by  pain.  Half  his  body  was  paralysed, 
and  the  features  on  the  right  side  of  his  face  were  drawn 
and  motionless.  From  time  to  time  he  would  give  a  low 
groan,  and  the  dog,  as  if  understanding  his  master's  dis- 
tress, would  thrust  his  nose  forward  and  give  a  whine  of 
sympathy. 

When  it  became  dark,  the  shepherd  with  some  difficulty 
managed  to  light  the  lantern  that  the  horseman  had  placed 
by  his  bed.  Then  he  reached  for  water,  drank  a  little  and 
offered  some  to  the  dog,  who  licked  intelligently  and  gently 
at  the  rim  of  the  cup.  Then,  exhausted  by  this  effort,  the 
man  lay  back  with  a  sigh.  For  a  while  he  watched  the 
flickering  shadows  that  the  lantern  cast  on  wall  and  ceil- 
ing, and  all  the  while  he  spoke  incessantly  to  the  dog.  He 
repeated  himself,  saying  over  the  same  thing  again  and 
again. 

"You  must  stay  with  me,  Rover.  You  must  stay  with 
me." 

He  spoke  quickly  and  incoherently,  and  as  he  spoke 
the  muscles  of  the  left  side  of  his  face  moved  nervously. 
To  go  on  speaking  had  now  become  a  necessity.  The  idea 
obsessed  him  that  he  must  not  be  silent,  for  a  new-awak- 
ened fear  was  pressing  upon  his  heart.  He  felt  one  side  of 
his  tongue  and  mouth  to  be  becoming  stiff,  and  he  found 
it  difficult  to  articulate.  What  if  he  should  lose  his  power 
of  speech? 

That  thought  was  terrible,  and  he  babbled  on,  glad  to 
assure  himself  that  he  still  had  the  power  of  forming  words. 

The  dog  beside  him  whined  in  response  and  seemed  to 
understand  the  fear  which  engendered  that  meaningless 
stream  of  sound.  He  jumped  up  and  licked  the  man's 
face. 

The  shepherd  muttered  incessantly  and  watched  the  dog 
with  eyes  overflowing  with  tears.     The  dog,  as  if  in  ar 
ecstasy  of  sympathy,  raised  himself  and  put  his  great  paws 
on  his  master's  chest.    Then  he  howled,  a  long,  sustainec 
howl  expressive  of  all  that  sorrow  which  can  witness  the  suf- 


MAN  AND  BRUTE  301 

fering  of  another  but  does  not  know  how  to  lessen  or  al- 
leviate that  suffering. 

After  that,  there  was  silence  in  the  hut  and  the  hours 
crept  slowly  by. 

Ill 

The  man  lay  helpless,  watching  the  great  beast  that 
loved  him  and  suffered  for  him.  Often  their  eyes  met,  but 
never  for  more  than  an  instant,  and  then,  as  if  embarrassed 
and  ashamed  at  his  master's  weakness,  the  dog  would  look 
away,  gaze  uneasily  into  the  corners  of  the  hut  and  then 
hurriedly  glance  back  again. 

Then,  as  the  shepherd  watched  his  old  friend  and  com- 
panion of  many  years,  he  saw  a  strange  change  come  over 
him.  He  saw  him  stiffen  his  paws,  saw  the  hair  on  his 
back  rise  up  and  bristle  and  saw  his  lips  twitch  and  the 
whites  of  his  eyes  roll  and  shine.  He  remembered  how  he 
had  once  before  seen  him  like  that.  It  was  years  ago, 
when  the  dog  was  young.  They  had  been  together  on  a 
hillside  and  there  was  mist  rising  from  the  valley.  He 
had  been  sitting  by  his  sheep  when  the  dog  had  suddenly 
bayed  and  had  stood  in  just  such  an  attitude  gazing  out 
over  the  valley  and  growling.  Step  by  step  he  had  come 
i  back  to  his  master  and  then  crouched  against  his  legs  shiver- 
i  ing  with  terror.  That  was  the  coming  of  fear. 

The  two  occasions  were  similar.  Fear  like  a  gust  had 
struck  the  dog's  heart,  fear  of  the  abnormal,  fear,  per- 
ihaps,  of  the  hidden  and  inexorable  cruelty  of  life.  And 
the  man,  as  he  lay  there  helpless,  understood  and  remem- 
bered, and  he  also  became  afraid. 

To  both  man  and  dog  something  malevolent  had  been 
revealed.  Inside  that  small  hut  life  had  suddenly  shown 
itself  naked  and  ruthless.  Outside,  where  the  grey  salt- 
bushes  afforded  cover  to  wallabies  and  night  birds,  existence 
was  still,  no  doubt,  the  same,  was  still  covered  by  that 
opaque  veil  that  blinds  and  deceives;  but  within  those 
walls  there  was  madness,  the  madness  of  sudden  under- 
standing, the  madness  of  fear. 


302   THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

The  dog  was  now  very  still;  he  crouched  close  to  his 
master,  occasionally  giving  low  growls.  As  the  old  shep- 
herd watched  him  he  felt  the  presence  of  something  un- 
canny and  distasteful.  Now  that  his  body  was  powerless, 
his  mind  swarmed  with  disquieting  recollections  of  his  earlier 
life,  and  particularly  he  remembered  an  incident  that  had 
happened  in  the  hot  months  of  a  dry-season.  The  bush 
was  parched  with  thirst  and  dead  animals  were  a  com- 
mon sight.  He  had  come  one  day  upon  a  round  mouse's 
nest,  which  lay  exposed  among  the  withered  grass.  On 
opening  it  he  had  found  two  starved  mice.  They  were 
alive,  but  horribly  thin;  they  moved  their  limbs  slowly  and 
senselessly;  on  their  fur  were  patches  of  the  yellow  eggs 
of  flies.  He  remembered  how  he  had  killed  them  and  was 
horrified  at  his  task.  Now  his  dog  reminded  him  of  those 
mice.  He  remembered  the  pathetic  savagery  of  their  ex- 
posed yellow  teeth. 

Suddenly  a  cry  sounded  not  very  far  distant. 

To  the  man  it  was  a  message  of  hope.  Help  was  com- 
ing! This  nightmare  of  terror  and  isolation  might  pass! 

He  tried  hard  to  articulate,  to  shout,  but  the  cry  that 
came  from  his  lips  was  hardly  audible. 

He  tried  to  raise  himself,  but  failed  and  fell  back,  his 
muscles  twitching  uncontrollably. 

In  one  leap  the  dog  was  on  his  feet.  And  now  he  was 
rigid,  each  foot  seemed  stiffly  rooted  to  the  ground.  His 
back  was  arched,  the  hairs  bristling  and  upright.  His 
teeth  were  bared.  All  his  savagery  and  fear  showed  in 
his  eyes.  If  in  the  close  confines  of  the  hut  there  had  been 
engendered  madness  and  fear,  savagery  now  came, to  join 
them.  The  ugliness  of  brute  ferocity  stood  hunched  upon 
four  legs,  rooted  to  the  earth,  bristling  with  terror. 

Another  shout  sounded,  this  time  nearer;  then  light  foot- 
steps were  to  be  heard  approaching.  The  dog  quivered 
through  his  whole  body.  His  lips,  drawn  back,  exposed  the 
long  canine  teeth.  The  door  creaked  on  its  hinges  and 
was  pushed  slowly  open.  The  doctor,  fresh  from  all  the 
mysterious  beauty  of  a  summer's  night,  stepped  into  the  hut. 

With  stiff  movements,  like  those  of  the  starving  mice, 


MAN  AND  BRUTE  303 

the  dog  arched  himself,  lowered  his  head  and  tail  and  took 
short,  cringing  steps  sideways  and  forward.  Then  with  a 
snarl  of  fear  and  rage  he  leapt  at  the  man's  throat. 

Dr.  Laurence,  who  was  for  the  moment  slightly  blinded 
by  the  lantern  light,  threw  up  his  arm  to  guard  his  face* 
The  dog's  jaws  fastened  above  his  wrist  and  the  strong 
teeth  pressed  their  way  through  his  coat  and  pierced  the 
flesh.  The  first  impact  of  the  attack  knocked  him  back- 
wards and  he  was  pinned  against  the  wall  of  the  hut. 
The  sudden  shock  scattered  for  a  moment  all  his  thoughts, 
and  for  just  a  small  fraction  of  time  he  was  bewildered 
and  almost  helpless  beneath  the  weight  of  the  dog.  The 
action  of  throwing  up  his  arm  to  guard  his  throat  had  been 
instinctive  rather  than  purposed.  In  the  next  instant,  how- 
ever, all  his  senses  rallied  and  his  mind  was  quick  to  take 
in  the  situation.  The  dog  was,  of  course,  guarding  his  sick 
master  and  his  attack  was  not  one  of  ignoble  savagery, 
but  merely  an  over-zealous  loyalty. 

The  man's  reason  was  able,  even  in  the  shock  of  those 
first  few  seconds,  to  take  in  the  facts  of  the  case.  He  could 
see  that  the  shepherd  was  lying  powerless  on  his  bed; 
he  could  hear  his  hoarse  and  inarticulate  whispers,  and 
realised  that  the  sick  man  could  give  no  help  and  that  he 
must  cope  with  the  dog  singlehanded.  He  must  struggle 
with  him  and  throttle  him  off;  and  he  would  do  so  as  hu- 
manely as  possible,  understanding  as  he  did  the  loyal  na- 
ture that  prompted  that  mistaken  savagery. 

Steadying  himself  against  the  wall,  he  forced  his  adver- 
sary further  from  him  and  gripped  at  his  shaggy  throat 
with  his  left  hand.  He -had  to  set  his  teeth  hard  against  the 
pain  which  shot  up  his  arm  as  the  dog  savagely  shook  his 
head  from  side  to  side. 

With  great  difficulty  he  struggled  and  fought  his  way 
across  the  room.  His  purpose  was  to  get  the  dog  against 
the  wall  and  there  throttle  him  from  his  hold.  This  was 
difficult  to  accomplish,  as  the  great  beast  struck  out  with 
his  forefeet  at  the  doctor's  face.  The  man  had  to  bend  his 
head  forward  and  duck  it  to  one  side  to  avoid  these  swift, 
savage  strokes.  It  was  thus  that  his  face  came  close  to 


304  THE  GREAT  MODERN.  ENGLISH  STORIES 

his  enemy's.  He  saw  the  rolling  whites  of  the  dog's  eyes, 
the  bare  pink  gums  and  the  writhing  lips.  The  intense 
savagery  of  that  expression  was  in  some  way  strangely  fa- 
miliar and  the  light  in  the  dog's  eyes  kindled  the  man's  ex- 
citement, made  his  heart  beat  faster,  and  roused  him  to 
the  highest  animation  of  nervous  force.  He  was  by  this 
time  taking  deep,  short  breaths  through  his  nostrils,  his 
lips  were  tight  shut  and  his  teeth  locked.  He  was  begin-, 
ning  to  get  angry  at  the  sharp  wrenches  of  pain  that  shot 
up  his  arm  as  the  dog  flung  his  weight  from  side  to  side. 

At  length  he  won  his  way  to  the  opposite  wall ;  his  fingers 
were  strongly  gripped  about  the  hot,  pulsing  throat.  In 
spite  of  the  pain  in  his  arm,  he  held  it  high,  and  thrust  with 
all  his  force  against  the  wall.  He  watched  the  eyes  of  the 
dog  open  and  shut  in  quick  succession  and  heard  his  breath 
come  in  long,  irregular  gasps.  He  felt  the  grip  on  his  arm 
relaxing,  but  just  when  he  thought  he  had  the  beast  pow- 
erless there  was  a  sudden  spasmodic  movement,  the  dog 
struck  upward  with  his  hind  legs,  and,  with  a  quick  jerk, 
shook  himself  freee. 

The  doctor  turned  quickly  to  face  him  and  at  the  same 
time  looked  round  for  a  weapon.  He  saw  the  shepherd's 
staff  standing  in  a  far  comer.  The  dog  at  once  anticipated 
his  thought  and  leapt  between.  They  faced  each  other 
wary  and  alert.  The  man's  former  attitude  of  calm  de- 
liberation had  left  him.  His  activities  were  now  all  involved 
in  the  fierce  struggle. 

The  eyes  of  both  man  and  brute  shone  with  anger  and 
the  muscles  of  the  man's  face  twitched.  Behind  him  he 
was  vaguely  conscious  of  the  crippled  shepherd  blinking 
and  inarticulate;  round  about  him  were  the  narrow  walls 
of  the  hut  which  shut  him  in  with  that  snarling  grey  devil. 
He  stepped  back  towards  the  bed,  hoping  to  lure  the  dogf 
from  his  position  and  thus  be  able  to  reach  the  shepherd's 
staff.  In  an  instant  the  dog  was  upon  him,  this  time 
leaping  for  his  thigh.  Agam  they  locked,  but  the  dog's 
hold  was  not  so  tenacious.  He  bit  and  leapt  free.  The 
man  cursed  at  the  pain  and  ran  in  fiercely,  striking  with 
his  fists. 


MAN  AND  BRUTE  305 

The  shepherd,  who  lay  helpless  on  his  bed,  watched  with 
horror  the  progress  of  the  fight. 

When,  at  first,  he  had  seen  the  dog  spring  and  the  doctor 
ward  off  the  attack,  he  had  been  filled  with  a  pathetic  and 
helpless  distress.  He  was  horrified  that  the  man  who  had 
come  those  many  miles  to  his  aid  should  be  thus  outraged; 
and  yet,  though  one  word  from  him  was  all  that  was  needed, 
he  was  powerless.  He  had  struggled  with  all  his  failing 
powers  to  speak  the  necessary  words,  but  all  that  he 
could  do  .was  to  form  an  inarticulate  and  choking  sound, 
which  seemed  to  urge  the  dog  to  keener  fury.  That  the 
doctor  had  so  calmly  withstood  the  first  attack  had  given 
him  some  assurance;  but  now  as  they  faced  each  otfier, 
angry  man  and  angry  brute  in  that  small  space,  his  spirit 
was  touched  with  a  new  fear — a  fear  that  was  even  stronger 
than  the  dread  of  his  growing  helplessness.  He  felt  de- 
spair at  the  sudden  revelation  of  the  untamed  fierceness  of 
life,  a  fierceness  that  could  even  stretch  out  and  envelop 
man  himself,  could  strip  from  him  his  reason  and  could  turn 
to  frenzied  cruelty  the  calm  glance  of  his  eye,  and  reveal 
the  brute  from  which  he  was  evolved. 

The  two  creatures  that  in  the  small,  dimly  lighted  room 
fought  with  such  ferocity  and  cruelty  were  strangely  sim- 
ilar in  their  movements  and  expression.  Savagery,  an  in- 
tense interest  and  even  a  delight  in  the  struggle,  showed 
in  every  pose  of  the  body,  in  every  nervous  contraction  of 
the  face.  In  the  numbing  terror  of  his  own  infirmity,  the 
shepherd  saw  that  they  gloried  in  and  enjoyed  the  naked 
fierceness  of  the  fight.  While  he  had  lain  there  helplessly 
watching  he  had  seen  how  the  doctor's  expression  had 
changed  from  calm  and  manly  determination  to  aroused, 
though  controlled,  anger;  from  anger  to  exasperation  and 
rage;  and  then  he  had  seen  how  rage  had  grown  into  the 
whining  hysterical  joy  of  conflict. 

Two  brutes  fought  in  that  room  beside  the  crippled  man. 
Motives  of  loyalty,  generosity  and  mercy  had  prepared  the 
way  for  the  contest.  Hidden  and  unsuspected  forces,  blind 
and  cruel,  had  stripped  first  one,  then  the  other  of  reason; 
and  the  mind,  that  had  the  knowledge  and  power  to  avert 


306  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

that  loosing  of  the  bestial  which  lurks  in  all  nature,  was 
held  ironically  dumb.  Man  and  dog,  each  in  the  grip  of 
the  mad  excitement  of  killing,  bit  and  struck  at  one  another. 
Both  were  cunning  at  attack  and  parry.  The  dog,  after 
the  first  furious  onslaught,  contented  himself  with  sudden 
rushes,  snapping  bites  and  quick  retreats;  the  man  tried 
always  to  drive  his  adversary  to  some  corner,  where,  grip- 
ping at  his  throat,  he  would  be  able  to  strangle  him,  crush- 
ing him  with  his  greater  weight.  For  what  seemed  an 
interminable  time  the  dog  was  able-  to  escape'  the  swift, 
downward  strokes  of  the  man's  fists  or  the  sudden  lift  of 
his  boots,  and  on  each  occasion  that  he  sprang  free  he 
snapped  fiercely  at  hands  or  legs,  leaving  the  doctor  bloody 
and  torn,  but  in  no  way  checked  in  that  deliberate  and  re- 
lentless pursuit. 

The  shepherd's  eyes,  filled  with  his  speechless  fear,  fol- 
lowed always  the  quick  dash  of  onslaught  and  recovery. 
He  had  seen  the  human  reason  of  the  man's  face  shrink 
and  become  replaced  by  the  passion  of  a  brute.  He  was 
strangely  affected  by  the  sight;  affected,  too,  by  the  knowl- 
edge that  both  of  the  combatants  were  now  oblivious  of 
his  existence.  He  was  cut  off  and  alone;  and  all  that  was 
left  of  human  dignity  and  restraint  had  found  refuge  in 
his  powerless  body  and  there  hid  in  fear,  unable  to  show 
themselves. 

With  an  effort  of  mind,  he  could  imagine  the  hushed 
stillness  of  the  bush,  that  he  knew  so  well,  which  stretched, 
grey  and  tranquil,  in  all  directions.  He  could  picture  the 
outside  view  of  his  own  hut.  How  often  had  he  seen  it  as 
a  small  dark  speck  in  the  evening  light?  It  had  been  full 
of  pleasant  associations  and  surrounded  by  recollections  of 
comfortable  evenings  and  meals  hungrily  enjoyed.  But 
now  within  those  walls  raged  a  pandemonium  of  savagery 
and  hate.  They  were  filled  by  the  abnormal,  by  such  a 
ferocity  as  even  beasts  feared.  For  what  beast  of  prey 
even  does  not  look  up  full  of  shame  after  a  savage  act?  It 
looks  fearfully  around  and  hurries  away  with  its  kill. 

The  sick  man  as  he  watched  saw  that  a  sudden  change 
came  over  the  fight,  and  instead  of  the  quick  movements 


MAN  AND  BRUTE  307 

from  side  to  side  he  could  see  that  the  doctor  had  caught 
the  dog  in  a  corner,  had  his  hands  at  its  throat  and  was 
crushing  it  under  his  weight.  The  shepherd  watched  with 
horror  the  look  on  the  man's  face.  Exuberant,  triumphant 
beast  was  there  written  large.  There  was  cruel  joy,  the 
joy  of  mastery,  the  joy  of  killing.  He  looked  at  the  dog's 
face  and  saw  fear  gleam  in  those  fierce  eyes.  The  eyes 
rolled  from  side  to  side,  blinked  horridly  and  then,  with  a 
despairing  glance,  looked  at  him.  In  them  there  was  an 
appeal  for  help;  and  in  that  despairing  look  he  recognised 
his  friend  and  companion  of  many  days  and  nights.  His 
dog,  his  friend,  was  there  helpless  and  dying.  If  he  could 
speak  he  might  wake  the  doctor  from  that  horrid  seizure  of 
atrocious  joy.  If  that  were  once  broken  the  man  would 
see  there  was  no  need  to  kill — the  dog  was  done,  played 
out. 

With  all  his  ebbing  strength  the  shepherd  lifted  himself 
on  his  left  elbow  and  with  a  desperate  effort  tried  to  shout. 
His  heart  seemed  to  be  beating  in  his  throat  so  that  no 
breath  could  come,  his  tongue  clicked  helplessly,  his  eyes 
rolled,  and,  exhausted,  he  fell  back. 

As  the  doctor's  fingers  tightened  in  that  final  grip  he 
understood  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  the  joy  of  killing, 
the  frank  and  shameless  joy  of  the  stronger  which  throttles 
what  is  weaker  and  less  able  to  live — a  sensation  compelling 
and  primitive.  It  was  with  supreme  elation  that  he  saw 
fear  and  defeat  creep  into  the  dog's  eyes,  and  not  till  long 
after  the  breath  had  ceased  to  be  drawn  through  the  ex- 
panded nostrils  did  he  relinquish  his  hold.  That  joy  of 
killing  as  it  died  down  gave  place  to  a  sudden  knowledge 
of  the  surrounding  quietness. 

In  spite  of  the  hammering  of  his  own  blood  in  his  ears 
and  the  short  gasps  of  his  own  breath,  he  became  con- 
scious of  a  great  stillness.  And  as  the  hammering  became 
less  insistent,  the  surrounding  quiet  seemed  to  creep  in  from 
the  untamed,  peaceful  expanse  of  the  Australian  bush.  It 
invaded  the  small  dimensions  of  the  hut  and  even  seemed 
to  force  its  way  into  his  own  brain.  He  loosed  his  grip 
and  raised  his  hands  to  his  face.  The  body  of  the  dog  fell 


308  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

back  with  a  thud.  The  man  muttered  something  under 
his  breath  about  having  done  for  the  brute,  and  was  sur- 
prised at  the  sound  of  his  own  voice. 

He  looked  round,  again  listening  to  the  stillness.  On 
the  ground  near  the  door  he  saw  his  bag  of  doctor's  instru- 
ments. On  the  bed  the  shepherd  lay  very  still.  At  that 
sight  the  doctor  remembered  the  whole  circumstance  of 
his  visit;  how  that  the  poor  fellow  had  been  paralysed, 
and  he  recollected  with  a  shudder  the  look  of  agony  in  his 
eyes.  That  was  when  that  damned  brute  had  flown  at  him. 

He  shakily  rose  to  his  feet  and  again  looked  round.  His 
arms  and  even  his  body  were  much  bitten  and  he  became 
conscious  of  pain. 

He  sucked  at  his  torn  hands,  then  for  a  time  was  mo- 
tionless as  if  enchanted  by  the  quiet  of  the  night.  He 
felt  he  must  break  that  spell. 

Deliberately  and  with  conscious  effort  he  walked  across 
to  the  bed  where  the  sick  man  lay.  The  shepherd's  eyes, 
filled  with  horror  and  despair,  stared  glassily  into  his  own. 
The  doctor,  as  if  to  protect  himself  from  that  glance,  cov- 
ered them  quickly  with  his  hand.  They  did  not  flinch 
at  his  sudden  movement.  Mechanically,  as  if  compelled  by 
Jong  habit,  he  bent  his  head  to  the  man's  chest,  listening 
for  the  heartbeats.  He  could  hear  no  sound.  Tne  silence 
of  that  desolate  land  was  all-pervading. 


THE  LOST  SUBURB 

BY  J.  D.  BERESFORD 

SO  brilliant  a  memory  must  surely  be  that  of  a  thing 
seen,  and  seen  in  a  moment  of  tense  emotion.  Other 
memories  of  childhood  are  almost  equally  clear; 
little,  bright  pictures  that  present  themselves  without 
mental  effort  and  awaken  curious  happiness  for  which 
I  cannot  account.  In  all  these  memories  there  is  a  sense  of 
unreal  reality  that  has  a  quality  of  ecstasy;  I  do  so  very 
truly  live  in  those  scenes,  yet  my  body  is  apart  from  them;; 
I  am  there  unhampered  by  any  weight  of  flesh.  I  can  e»- 
perience,  but  I  am  free.  This  past  is  new  to  me  as  no  com- 
mon sight  or  feeling  of  hitherto  unknown  life  is  ever  new;; 
unless  it  comes  strangely,  as  a  thing  remembered. 

The  great  difference  between  this  and  other  memories  is 
that  this  one  I  cannot  place.  The  others,  I  know,  are  cer- 
tainly of  scenes  and  acts  in  which  I  played  long  ago.  In 
the  almost  unbroken  monotony  of  the  long  reasoning  hours, 
when  the  dull  machinery  of  the  mind  works  with  its  usual 
recognition  of  faint  or  laboured  effort,  I  can  recall  the 
plain,  stupid  facts.  I  know  what  took  place  before  and 
after  those  scenes;  I  could  write  their  history.  The  kind 
of  history  that  is  written:  what  people  said  or  did,  what 
they  wore  or  how  they  looked.  There  is  no  ecstasy  in  that, 
only  the  repulsiveness  of  facts,  and  again  facts,  and  of  a 
landscape  or  a  human  being  reasonably  analysed. 

To  such  commonplaces  I,  too,  must  descend  in  order  to 
set  out  the  story  of  my  unplaced  memory — that  story  which 
I  cherish  as  a  record  of  my  soul's  experience,  however 
banal.  Not  that  this  is  apparent,  superficial  banality  is 
of  the  least  account.  The  glorious  truth  for  me  is  in  the 

309 


3 io  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

knowledge  that  I  have  trespassed  among  the  mysteries  of 
the  outer  world,  that  I  have  crept  through  the  interstices  of 
matter  and  walked  in  the  spaceless,  timeless  present  of  the 
universe.  My  soul  has  returned  to  me  and  said,  "  I  am 
thyself." 

All  this  is  proof  to  me  and  will  be  proof  to  none  but  me, 
but  I  put  forward  my  three  phases  in  order,  ranging  them 
in  succession,  at  once  chronological  and  logically  sequen- 
tial. So  I  come  by  way  of  memory  and  dream  to  the 
bald  evidence  of  what  we  call  reality. 

/.    Memory 

It  is  so  slight  a  thing,  and  yet  to  me  so  full  of  an  inex- 
plicable joy.  I  must  have  been  absurdly  young,  so  young 
that  only  this  one  emotional  picture  impressed  me,  and 
all  the  business  of  movement,  purpose,  and  sequence  of 
life  that  should  circumscribe  the  vision  is  forgotten. 

I  was  looking  out  from  a  moving  window,  and  reason 
tells  me  that  it  was  probably  the  window  of  a  four-wheeled 
cab.  My  mother  was  frightened  to  death  of  hansoms. 

I  think  it  must  have  been  my  first  visit  to  London, 
though  no  record  of  such  a  visit  remains,  and  doubtless  my 
childish  mind  was  thrilled  with  the  joy  of  adventure  into 
the  untraversed  mysteries  of  the  suburbs  about  the  great  city. 
Yet  one  wonders  why  the  things  that  must  have  appeared 
so  bizarre  to  me  have  been  forgotten;  the  first  impression 
of  streets  and  traffic,  of  great  shop-windows,  or  the  vastness 
of  titanic  buildings,  while  this  one  scene,  less  unfamiliar, 
should  be  so  vividly  remembered. 

It  may  be  that  my  exhilaration  had  reached  some  climax, 
and  that  for  a  moment  I  was  one  with  life ;  or  it  may  be  that 
that  spot  held  some  definite  relation  to  myself,  a  relation 
imperfectly  traced,  which  cannot  be  explained. 

I  hesitated  on  the  verge  of  attempted  description,  know- 
ing the  inner  joy  to  be  indescribable.  To  me  the  old  magic 
returns,  but  the  place  to  all  others  must  appear  as  a  hun- 
dred other  places. 

I  saw  the  right  side  of  the  road  more  clearly,  but  I  must 


THE  LOST  SUBURB  3H 

have  danced  across  the  floor  of  the  cab  and  seen  a  little, 
of  the  left  side,  for  I  know  something  of  that  also,  though 
less  definitely.  We  were  on  the  slope  of  a  hill,  and  the 
houses  on  the  right  side  stood  above  the  level  of  the  road. 
I  could  see  little  of  the  houses,  however,  for  at  the  foot  of 
their  gardens  was  planted  a  thick  row  of  balsam  poplars — • 
strong,  healthy  trees  that  were  just  come  to  full  leaf  and 
filled  the  air  with  their  heavy-sweet  perfume.  The  dusk 
was  falling,  and  under  the  trees  the  shadows  were  so  heavy 
that  I  could  see  nothing  but  the  flicker  of  some  white  gate 
here  and  there.  Then  there  was  a  break  in  the  poplars. 
For  ten  yards,  perhaps,  came  a  low  brick  wall,  coped  with 
thin  stone,  and  crowned  with  a  poor  iron  rail  carried  on 
low  cast-iron  standards  set  far  apart.  The  standards  were 
cast  in  an  ornamental  shape,  capped  by  a  fleur-de-lys  or 
some  other  misconception  of  the  Early  Victorian  founders. 
A  broken  shrubbery  of  variegated  laurel  pushed  discoloured 
leaves  over  and  through  the  iron-work.  The  house  I  hardly 
saw;  only  one  fact  remains,  it  was  chocolate-coloured. 
Perhaps  I  conceived  that  it  was  certainly  built  of  choco- 
late. Then  we  were  passing  the  poplars  again,  the  heavily 
fragrant  poplars  that  threw  such  deep  shadows. 

On  the  other  side  was  a  great  wood,  shut  away  from  all 
discovery  by  a  cliff  of  black  fence  incredibly  high — higher 
than  the  roof  of  our  monumental  cab — and  defended  at  the 
top  by  a  row  of  vicious  little  crooked  spikes,  like  capital 
T's  with  one  arm  broken  away.  In  one  place  a  pear- 
shaped  bench  of  lilac  overhung  the  fence.  And  all  my 
memory  of  the  picture  goes  to  the  sound  of  the  crunch  of 
new  gravel  and  the  rattling  of  a  loose  window. 

That  is  all;  little  enough,  and  filled  with  no  more  ro- 
mance than  can  be  found  in  any  other  new  suburb,  spread- 
ing out  to  encroach  later  on  the  old  estate  which  fronted 
and  repelled  it  on  the  left  side  of  my  road.  But  to  me  it 
has  some  special  quality  that  mountain,  cliff,  or  sea  can 
never  hold ;  and  when:  probably  twenty  years  later,  I  came 
to  live  in  London,  I  set  myself  to  find  that  spot  which  had 
left  so  deep  an  impression  on  me. 

I  was  tireless  in  those  days,  and  I  explored  the  suburbs 


3i2    THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

from  Catford  to  Barnet,  from  Leytonstone  to  Putney.  In- 
numerable summer  evenings  I  have  spent  in  wandering  hap- 
pily through  the  wilderness  of  streets,  bright  and  dull,  that 
encircle  the  gloom  of  the  essential  London.  And  always 
as  I  went  I  was  on  the  verge  of  the  great  discovery;  the 
great  hope  was  ever  present  with  me  that  at  the  next  turn- 
ing I  might  find  again  my  wonderland. 

II.    Dream 

In  another  twenty  years  I  had  failed  to  find  it,  and  then 
for  the  first  time  my  soul  went  there  in  a  dream. 

The  dream  began  with  confusion  and  foolishness.  I  was 
making  my  way,  absurdly,  through  houses  and  enclosed 
places,  passing  through  rooms  full  of  people,  down  passages, 
across  yards  and  over  walls,  seeking  some  plain,  open 
street  where  I  might  walk  unharassed  by  fears  of  intru- 
sion and  trespass.  Quite  suddenly  I  found  myself  flying;' 
and  then,  the  confusion  vanished,  the  dream  steadied,  I 
came  into  reality. 

I  was  walking  in  a  familiar  place,  under  the  shadow  of 
balsam  poplars — the  bright  new  flags  of  the  pavement  were 
sticky  in  places  with  the  varnish  of  spilled  gum  from  the 
trees,  and  daintily  littered  with  shed  catkins.  The  road 
was  spotlessly  neat,  as  a  toy  road,  its  red  gravel  freshly 
rolled  and  unmarked  by  a  single  wheel-track.  Across  the 
way  a  high  tarred  fence  ran  unbroken  up  the  hill,  and  be- 
hind the  fence  were  tall  forest  trees,  elm,  oak,  and  beech, 
their  little  newly-green  leaves  in  brilliant  contrast  with  the 
blackness  of  an  occasional  fir. 

A  familiar  place  indeed  to  me;  but  in  my  dream  I  had 
no  recollection  of  my  childish  visit.  My  associations  were 
older  than  that. 

Thus  I  came  by  unrealised  steps  to  the  break  in  the  pop- 
lars. 

The  house  that  lay  back  behind  the  waist-high  wall,  with 
its  useless  iron  railing,  was  grotesquely  out  of  place.  On 
either  side  of  it  were  detached  surburban  villas,  big,  high- 
shouldered  houses  of  red  brick  with  stone  dressings  and 


THE  LOST  SUBURB  313 

plain  stone  string  courses — "blood  bandages"  we  used  to 
call  the  style  in  my  architectural  days. 

The  house  behind  the  dwarf  wall  was  an  anachronism,  a 
square  box,  flat-roofed  and  stumpy;  and  some  fool  had 
painted  its  stuccoed  straightness  a  dark  chocolate.  The 
plainness  of  its  dingy  front  was  relieved  only  by  the  pro- 
jection of  a  porch,  equally  dour  and  squat,  with  two  dumpy, 
bulging  columns  supporting  a  weak  entablature;  some  hor- 
rible Georgian  conception  of  the  Doric  order.  All  the  face 
of  that  stucco  box  was  leprous  as  the  trunk  of  a  plane-tree, 
the  little  bow-legged  columns  were  nearly  bare. 

The  scrubby  patch  of  grass  and  dandelions — hardly  dis- 
tinguishable from  the  weed-covered  path — that  lay  be- 
tween me  and  the  house,  contrasted  no  less  sharply  with 
the  smooth  lawns  and  bright  flower-beds  of  its  neigh- 
bours. 

The  road  ran  in  a  curve,  the  gardens  tapered  back  from 
the  pavement,  the  face  of  every  house  was  set  parallel  with 
the  tangent;  and  it  seemed  as  if  those  ambitious  villas  on 
either  hand  turned  a  contemptuous  shoulder  to  this  square- 
browed  little  anachronism. 

Square-browed  and  sulky  it  was,  ashamed  yet  obstinately 
defiant,  staring  a  resolute-eyed  challenge  at  the  prim  os- 
tentation of  that  smooth  road  of  red  gravel. 

I  was  glad  for  the  little  house. 

The  road  was  deserted,  the  whole  place  silent  as  if  one 
looked  at  the  pictured  thing  rather  than  walked  among 
the  substance.  But  I  was  expecting  some  one,  and  pres- 
ently he  came,  slinking  furtive  and  apologetic  from  under 
the  shadow  of  the  scented  poplars. 

He  wore  a  top-hat  that  showed  in  its  weakest  places  a 
foundation  of  cardboard.  His  rusty  frock-coat  fitted  him 
like  a  jersey,  and  the  thick-soled  boots  below  the  fringe  of 
his  too-short  grey  trousers  were  the  boots  of  a  workman. 

He  nodded  to  me  with  a  jerk  of  his  head  as  he  came  out' 
into  the  daylight,  and  fumbled  with  one  dirty  hand  at  his 
untidy  beard. 

"Still  'ere,"  he  remarked.  "We're  clean  forgot,  that's 
what  we  are." 


3i4  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

"No  one  comes  along  this  road!"  I  said. 

"Not  with  all  the  big  'ouses  frontin'  the  other  way,"  he 
added. 

It  was  true.  I  had  not  noticed  that,  or  I  had  forgotten, 
it.  One  only  saw  the  backs  of  those  high-shouldered  villas, 
ornamented  though  they  were  to  turn  some  kind  of  a  face 
to  either  road.  Only  my  little  house  showed  a  front  to 
this  bright  new  gravel  and  the  tall  trees  of  the  boarded  es- 
tate. 

And  as  the  shabby  man  spoke  to  me,  I  heard  for  the 
first  time  a  sound,  very  thin  and  far  away,  that  came  from 
the  other  side  of  the  houses,  the  delicate,  distant  ring  of 
voices  and  the  tinkle  of  tiny  laughter — but  so  remote,  so 
infinitely  removed  from  us. 

"  JE's  still  alive,"  continued  the  shabby  man,  pointing  to 
the  chocolate  house.  "I  seen  'im  a  few  days  since — lookin' 
out  o'  window  'e  was.  .  .  ." 

Again  my  mind  took  up  the  idea  submitted.  I  could 
recover  nothing  for  myself,  but  every  least  suggestion  en- 
abled me  to  gather  up  again  some  lost  thread. 

He  was  still  alive,  the  figure  of  mystery  and  terror,  fit 
occupant  for  that  strange  house.  Yet  I  had  never  been 
afraid  of  that  apparition  which  appeared  sometimes  at 
the  window,  the  man  who  wore  some  repulsive,  disfiguring 
mask  across  his  face.  I  had  had  confidence  in  him.  But  if 
I  felt  thus,  why  did  I  call  him  a  figure  of  terror?  I  listened 
again  to  the  shabby  man.  He  had  been  rambling  on  while 
my  thoughts  were  building. 

He  said  something  about  the  "children  always  peerin'  and 
pryin'  up  the  lane.  .  .  ." 

I  smiled,  and  turned  slightly  away  from  him.  I  saw  them 
coming  now.  The  road  was  waking  slowly  to  life.  I  saw 
a  little  huddled  group,  the  familiar  group  of  children  com- 
ing slowly  towards  us,  keeping  close  under  the  shadow  of 
the  poplars.  A  little  girl  of  nine  or  ten  was  playing  mother 
to  them,  keeping  them  back,  spreading  out  her  skirts,  like 
a  little  hen  to  guard  her  inquisitive,  peeping  chickens.  She 
wore  sandals,  and  little  frilled  white  trousers  that  came 
down  to  her  ankles.  As  they  drew  timorously  nearer,  creep- 


THE  LOST  SUBURB  315 

ing  along  the  palings  inch  by  inch,  I  could  hear  their  sibilant 
whisperings,  little  duckings  and  chirps  of  laughter,  and  half- 
smothered  cries  of  affected  terror. 

Ah!  to  them  he  had  been  a  figure  of  terror,  though  they 
could  not  restrain  their  curiosity,  and,  after  all,  they  were 
safe.  No  one  had  ever  known  him  to  come  out  of  the 
house. 

As  I  watched  the  children,  now  drawing  so  near  to  us,  I 
was  on  the  verge  of  apprehension.  Surely  I  knew  that  tall, 
thin  child.  I  stared,  and  as  I  stared  she  and  the  others 
faded,  and  slipped  from  my  comprehension.  I  knew  they 
were  still  there,  but  I  could  no  longer  see  or  hear  them.  The 
whole  scene  about  me  had  grown  suddenly  stiff  and  arti- 
ficial, frozen  and  soundless;  I  had  a  sense  of  unreality  and 
doubt.  For  one  moment  I  fancied  that  I  was  flying  again, 
and  then  I  heard  the  thin,  whining  voice  of  the  little  shabby 
man,  and  came  back  to  intensest  realisation  of  my  surround- 
ings. The  children  had  gone,  but  I  could  hear  once  more 
the  tinkle  of  voices  and  little  laughter  beyond  the  houses. 

"Over  fifteen  year,  now,  since  he  first  come  .  .  ."  the 
little  man  was  saying. 

I  had  heard  some  one  say  that  before.  The  memory  of 
it  was  associated  quite  distinctly  with  the  smell  of  the 
balsam  poplars.  But  I  dared  not  attempt  to  recall  the  cir- 
cumstances. The  shock  I  had  just  received  had  left  me 
with  the  knowledge  of  my  double  consciousness.  I  must 
remain  placed  in  the  sense  of  my  happiness;  any  effort  of 
mind  or  conscious  stimulation  of  idea  would  drag  me  back 
to  my  other  life.  I  looked  down  at  the  pavement  and 
gently  rolled  a  green  catkin  to  and  fro  under  my  foot, 
listened  attentively  once  more  to  the  garrulous  little  man.  I 
understood  that  he  was  glad  to  have  some  one  to  talk  to. 
This  was  a  lonely,  unused  road. 

"...  'Aven't  seen  the  little  chap  for  the  past  day  or 
two,"  he  rambled  on;  "laid  up  again  very  like.  .  ." 

My  heart  leapt,  and  I  repeated  to  myself,  "calm,  tranquil 
happiness."  I  rolled  the  catkin  backwards  and  forwards 
under  my  foot.  I  knew  of  whom  he  was  speaking  now,  and 
for  an  instant  I  had  the  sense  of  looking  up  to  the  face 


316   THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

of  the  little  man  before  me — I,  who  was  nearly  a  foot  taller 
than  he. 

"Very  delicate,"  I  suggested. 

The  little  man  shook  his  head  sadly.  "Can't  live,"  he 
said,  paused,  and  then  repeated  with  morbid  enjoyment, 
"Can't  live.  'E's  got  the  look." 

I  could  not  compose  myself.  The  struggle  had  begun 
again,  the  effort  to  recall  the  past.  I  looked  down  at  the 
catkin  I  had  released,  and  saw  that  my  leg  was  bare  and 
that  I  had  on  my  foot  a  white  sock  and  a  black  round-toed 
slipper;  across  the  instep  was  a  strap  that  fastened  with  a 
little  round  black  button.  I  looked  up  quickly,  and  the 
shabby  man  had  vanished.  I  was  not  afraid,  but  I  was 
desperately  eager  to  stay  where  I  was.  I  reached  up  and 
grasped  the  iron  rail  on  the  low  wall.  I  had  to  stand  on  tip- 
toe to  reach  the  rail,  and  even  as  I  grasped  it,  it  rose  high 
in  the  air,  carrying  me  with  it.  I  swung  at  giddy  heights, 
and  once  looking  down,  I  saw  that  the  whole  sky  was  ablaze 
with  sunset.  I  could  not  bear  to  look  down  into  that  hot 
flame,  and  swung  over  on  my  back,  still  holding  tight  to  the 
rail.  Something  was  remorselessly  calling  me  out  of  the 
depths  of  time,  and  I  began  to  fall  through  enormous  spaces. 
Gradually  I  lost  all  sense  of  movement.  I  was  lying  on 
my  back  staring  at  some  huge  white  expanse.  My  arms 
were  still  above  my  head,  gripping  the  iron  rail  that  crowned 
the  wall  of  the  chocolate  house.  I  was,  in  fact,  in  bed  star- 
ing at  the  ceiling,  and  the  rail  was  the  rail  of  my  bed.  I 
knew  that  I  had  been  lying  intensely  still.  Even  now  I 
could  not  move. 

The  door  opened,  and  an  untidy  head  was  pushed  in. 

"I've  called  yer  three  times  a'ready,"  said  the  lodging- 
house  servant.  "It's  past  nine  o'clock." 

///.    Reality. 

I  did  not  go  to  the  office  that  morning.  I  was  too  excited 
and  too  contemptuous  of  the  meanness  of  life.  I  had  had 
transcendental  experience.  I  was  exalted,  superbly  stirred 
and  proud. 


THE  LOST  SUBURB  317 

The  glamour  of  that  wonderful  vision  was  still  upon  me, 
and  I  went  out  to  find  my  lost  suburb.  I  knew  that  I 
should  find  it  that  morning. 

And  to  me,  as  I  have  said,  the  evidence  is  convincing,  de- 
spite certain  aggravating  discrepancies  which  must,  in- 
evitably, I  am  afraid,  induce  doubt  in  other  minds. 

It  was  in  southwest  London,  but  I  shall  not  indicate  the 
precise  locality.  What  use  is  it  for  people  to  go  and  stare  at 
the  outside  of  commonplace  houses,  as  if  some  murder  had 
been  committed  or  some  ghost  seen  there? 

Even  I  had  no  thrill  when  I  found  the  place;  it  was  all 
so  changed.  The  estate  behind  the  tall  black  fence  has  all 
been  cut  up  into  trim  streets  of  villas,  of  meaner  pretension 
than  that  one  crescent  of  comparatively  large  houses,  which, 
by  the  way,  are  not  letting  well,  although  they  are  not  nearly 
so  large  and  imposing  as  I  had  imagined.  The  chocolate 
house  has  disappeared,  but  I  can  mark  the  place  where  it 
stood,  because  there  is  one  house  in  the  crescent  which  is 
narrower  and  smaller  than  the  others.  It  matches  the 
others  in  style  and  faces  the  same  way,  turning  its  white- 
streaked  back  to  the  meaner  villas  on  the  estate,  but  it 
has  no  poplars  in  its  garden.  The  other  poplars,  however, 
were  disappointing.  They  were  thinner,  many  of  them 
have  died,  no  doubt;  and  those  that  remain  have  been 
pollarded  and  formalised.  Moreover,  it  was  late  summer 
when  I  went,  and  they  had  lost  their  fragrance. 

I  shall  not  gp  there  again;  my  suburb  is  lost,  now,  for- 
ever. 

If  this  were  all,  I  should  have  a  poor  case,  I  admit;  but 
I  have  better  evidence  than  this,  although  there  is  some 
confusion  of  time  which  I  cannot  explain. 

I  had  little  difficulty  in  finding  the  house-agents,  their 
boards  leaned  disreputably  over  many  of  the  palings,  thrust- 
ing their  statements  of  eligibility  at  the  road. 

The  young  man  in  the  spruce,  bare  office,  however,  was  no 
use  to  me  directly.  His  memory  carried  him  back  no  further 
than  a  paltry  three  years,  and  his  firm  had  only  been  estab-» 
lished  for  seven. 

He  offered  me  keys  and  orders  to  view,  and  plainly  re- 


3i8   THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

garded  me  with  suspicion  when  I  told  him  that  I  wanted  to 
find  out  when  one  of  the  houses  in  the  crescent  was  built. 

"All  modern  requirements,"  he  said,  "bath,  hot 
water.  .  .  ." 

"But  surely,"  I  interrupted  him,  "the  houses  in  the  cres- 
cent are  not  quite  modern.  They  must  have  been  there,"  I 
hesitated  and  then  plunged,  "at  least  seventy  years."  I 
thought  of  the  little  girl  in  the  Early  Victorian  trousers  and 
sandals. 

The  clerk  pursed  his  mouth  and  shook  his  head.  "Well,  I 
can't  say  for  certain,"  he  said,  "but  I  shouldn't  think  they'd 
been  up  as  long  as  that.  Anyway,  they're  all  fitted  with 
bath-rooms  now,  hot  water  upstairs,  and  every  .  .  ." 

"I  don't  want  to  take  a  house,"  I  protested.  "I'm  sorry 
if  I'm  wasting  your  time,  but  I  have  a  particular  interest  in 
one  house,  'The  Limes,7  I  think  you  called  it.  I — I — knew 
some  one  who  lived  there  once." 

"Sorry  I  can't  be  of  any  assistance,"  returned  the  clerk- 
coldly.  He  had  plainly  lost  any  interest  in  me,  and  he  had 
never  had  much. 

But  as  I  turned  to  go  out  of  the  office  he  became  human 
for  a  moment.  "You're  sure  you  don't  want  to  take  a 
house  in  the  crescent?"  he  asked.  "The  Limes,"  it  seemed, 
was  not  to  be  let. 

"Quite  sure,"  I  said,  convincingly. 

He  hesitated,  and  then  said:  "Because  if  it's  only  infor- 
mation you  want,  there's  old  Hankin  in  the  High  Street,  No. 
69,  a  rival  firm,  of  course,  and  if  you  were  thinking  of  taking 
a  house,  you'd  better  come  to  us,  but  .  .  ." 

I  thanked  him,  and  hurried  away  to  find  old  Hankin. 

His  office  was  a  small  and  dingy  place,  and  old  Hankin 
was  a  man  of  fifty-five  or  so;  he  wore  a  grey  beard  and 
spectacles.  He  was  evidently  not  busy,  but  he  regarded  me 
with  the  professional  distrust  of  the  house-agent.  I  had 
some  difficulty  in  breaking  through  his  suspicion  of  the  po- 
tential leaseholder. 

"  'The  Limes,'  "  he  said  at  last,  looking  at  me  over  his 
spectacles,  "was  built  about  thirty  years  ago,  just  before 
I  came  into  the  business." 


THE  LOST  SUBURB  319, 

"You  don't  remember  the  house  that  stood  there  before?" 
I  asked. 

He  pinched  up  his  under  lip  between  his  finger  and 
thumb,  and  continued  to  regard  me  very  earnestly  above 
his  spectacles.  "Making  inquiries?"  he  asked,  and  his  tone 
gave  the  phrase  a  technical  savour. 

"Only  on  my  own  behalf,"  I  said.  "I  have  heard  rather 
a  curious  story  of  the  place."  I  wished  I  could  tell  him  the 
truth,  but  it  was  impossible.  He,  most  assuredly,  would 
never  have  believed  me ;  so  unreal  is  the  world  of  fact. 

He  dropped  quite  unexpectedly  into  the  confidential. 
"You  see,"  he  said,  "I  left  'ome  when  I  was  fifteen — ran 
away  to  sea."  The  ghost  of  a  smile  came  into  IT'S  eyes  at 
the  amazing  thought  that  once  he,  old  Hankin,  the  house- 
agent,  had  run  away  to  sea. 

I  curbed  my  impatience — it  was  the  only  way.  I  allowed 
him  to  ramble  on,  pricking  him  with  assumed  interest  and 
an  occasional  question,  till  I  brought  him  home  at  the  age 
of  twenty-seven,  to  a  forgiving  father  in  the  house  and  estate 
agency  business. 

"And  I  suppose  your  father  would  remember  the  old  house 
that  stood  in  the  crescent  before  The  Limes'  was  built?"  I 
prompted  him. 

He  nodded.  "He  had  some  story  about  that  'ouse,  if  I 
remember  right,"  said  old  Hankin. 

I  waited,  breathless. 

"It  was  an  old  'ouse  as  was  burnt  down,"  he  went  on, 
"but  the  story  was  about  some  queer  customer  as  used  to 
live  there,  back  in  the  'forties — before  I  was  born,  that  was." 
He  took  off  his  spectacles  and  made  a  business  of  wiping 
them  and  peering  at  the  glasses. 

I  looked  my  interest. 

"I  dunno  whether  the  old  man  dreamt  it  or  not,  but  he 
used  to  tell  as  the  occupier  was  a  hermit  or  a  miser  or  what 
not,  and  was  wanted  for  some  old  debt.  Shut  hisself  up  in 
the  'ouse,  so  the  old  man  used  to  say,  and  never  put  his 
'ead  out  o'  doors  by  daylight  for  fear  of  distraint.  Free'old, 
the  'ouse  was.  There  wasn't  no  road  at  the  back  then — 
what's  now  the  front,  of  course — and  only  the  lane. 


320    THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

Granger's  Lane,  on  the  other  side.  The  'ouses  in  the  cres- 
cent was  built  in  'seventy-nine." 

"You're  sure  of  that?"  I  asked. 

He  nodded.  "We  got  the  plans  in  the  office  somewhere," 
he  said,  and  looked  round  at  the  muddle  about  him  a  little 
helplessly. 

"Never  mind  about  the  plans,"  I  soothed  him.  "Was 
there  any  more  about  that  miser  in  the  old  house?" 

He  wrinkled  his  forehead.  "There  was  something  amusin' 
about  him,"  he  answered,  "but  I  forget  the  rights  of  it.  To 
the  best  oy  my  recollection,  the  old  debt  as  I  was  referring 
to  had  been  given  up  long  ago  by  the  creditors,  but  there 
was  some  old  bailiff  or  debt  collector  who'd  been  offered  a 
commission  on  recovery,  and  he  was  the  only  one  who  re- 
membered it.  Used  to  hang  about  the  place  in  the  evenin's 
sometimes  after  his  ordinary  work.  Something  o'  that  kind. 
The  old  man  used  to  make  a  story  of  it,  I  know,  but  'e's 
been  dead  this  twenty  year." 

That  was  all  I  could  get  out  of  old  Hankin,  and  so  far 
I  have  not  been  able  to  corroborate  a  single  other  detail. 


Now  that  all  the  essential  facts  have  been  put  on  paper, 
I  am  moved  by  a  sense  of  impatience.  I  lived  for  a  time  on 
such  a  high  plane  of  emotion,  I  was  so  sure  that  inspiration 
had  been  given  to  me;  but  now,  as  I  examine  the  evidence, 
coldly  and  reasonably,  a  doubt  insinuates  itself,  some  reflex 
of  the  doubt  that  I  anticipated  in  other  minds  before  I  be- 
gan to  write. 

There  was  certainly  some  confusion  of  time  in  my  dream. 
Those  large  villas  were  not  built,  nor  the  ground  cleared 
when  that  odd  little  speculating  bailiff  used  to  take  his 
evening  patrol  in  the  hope  of  one  day  being  able  to  serve  the 
writ  he  doubtless  carried  in  the  breast-pocket  of  that  tightly- 
fitting  frock-coat.  They  were  not  built  when  those  children 
crer5t,  giggling  and  half-scared,  under  the  shadow  of  the 
poplars,  nor  when  that  one  little  boy,  who  was  not  afraid 
and  who  was  so  sure  to  die,  walked — who  knows? — into  the 
very  garden,  perhaps  even  into  the  house  itself.  That 


THE  LOST  SUBURB  321 

thought  sets  me  trembling  with  wonder  and  eagerness  again. 
If  I  could  but  dream  once  more,  and  remember  if  I  was 
ever  inside  the  house.  .  .  . 

I  grant  the  confusion,  but  on  that  plane  of  being,  after 
all,  time  is  not,  and  my  own  childish  vision  of  the  place  in 
this  life — the  houses  were  newly-built  then — may  have 
created  on  that  other  plane  a  setting  which,  according  to  our 
measure,  was  an  anachronism. 

One  further  point  I  am  very  loth  to  cede:  the  question  of 
my  fragrant  poplars.  According  to  Aiton,  P.  balsamifera 
was  introduced  into  England  at  the  end  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  and  it  is  now  commonly  grown  in  suburbs;  but  is 
it  likely  to  have  been  found  on  waste  ground  in  1840?  I 
can  only  say  that  it  is  not  impossible.  I  do  not  know  that 
there  may  not  have  been  older  houses  fronting  Granger's 
Lane,  before  the  villas  came. 

I  end  where  I  began  by  saying  that  the  memory,  the 
dream,  and  my  subsequent  investigations  are  evidence  to 
me,  if  they  carry  no  weight  with  others.  The  vision  has 
come  to  me  and  left  me  changed.  I  have  touched  a  higher 
plane  of  being,  and  all  my  old  materialistic  doubts  are  gone, 
never  to  return.  This  one  thing  I  have  learned,  and  to  that 
I  shall  always  be  able  to  hold :  Reality  lies  within  ourselves, 
not  in  the  things  about  us. 


THE  BIRTH  OF  AN  ARTIST1 

BY  HUGH  DE  SELINCOURT 


A  VERY  old  man,  a  Mr.  Venables,  sat  with  some 
friends  who  were  talking  together,  a  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Plurnmer,  their  daughter  and  two  men.  Mrs.  Plum- 
mer  was  a  very  kind-hearted  woman  and  made  a  point  of 
asking  Mr.  Venables  to  dinner  at  least  once  every  month — 
quite  informally.  One  of  the  men  had  been  at  an  aviation 
meeting  and  had  seen  a  fatal  accident.  He  described  a  thrill 
that  was  visible  through  the  whole  crowd  as  the  monstrous 
machine  started  off  along  the  ground  and  rose  into  the 
air,  bearing  a  man  up  into  the  sunshine. 

The  old  man  was  listening,  but  leaned  forward  to  listen 
when  the  narrator  said:  "He  was  making  a  huge  circle  in 
the  air.  An  exhibition  flight,  you  know.  In  following  him 
with  my  glasses,  I  covered  some  swallows  flying  too.  It 
somehow  made  me  laugh."  In  the  remainder  of  the  story 
Mr.  Venables  did  not  seem  to  take  so  much  interest  as  he 
had  taken  in  the  swallows. 

After  the  hush  which  followed  the  tragic  end,  Mrs.  Plum- 
mer  said:  "Oh!  why  do  they  do  it?"  And  the  other  man 
said:  "What  a  splendid  death  to  die."  And  the  old  man 
said  to  himself,  "Death  is  always  splendid." 

But  the  narrator  heard  him  and  objected:  "That  de- 
pends when  you  die  and  how  you  die."  To  which  Mr.  Ven- 
ables answered:  "Oh  yes,  sad,  distressing,  and  all  that — 
but  the  fact  of  death  is  splendid,"  and  he  settled  in  his 
chair,  declining  argument. 

1  From  "Nine  Tales."  By  permission  of  Dodd,  Mead  and 
Company. 

322 


THE  BIRTH  OF  AN  ARTIST  323 

It  passed  through  the  girl's  mind  that  perhaps  it  was  well 
such  a  very  old  man  did  think  so,  under  the  circumstances. 
And  the  thought  appearing  horrid  to  her,  she  hurried  across 
the  room  to  put  a  cushion  behind  his  back.  He  smiled 
thanks  and  took  hold  of  her  wrists.  When  he  smiled  you 
saw  the  meaning  of  the  deep  wrinkles  round  his  eyes  and 
mouth:  a  frown  puts  the  finish  to  some  faces,  a  smile  to 
others. 

"At  my  age,"  he  said  softly,  "I  ought  to  be  friends  with 
death,  eh?" 

The  girl  flushed.  The  old  man  said  in  a  louder  voice: 
"Hoo,  I'd  be  friends  with  age  if  I  could  make  you  young 
beggars  feel  the  truth  of  what  I  know." 

He  withdrew  again  into  his  arm-chair  and  the  girl  sat 
down,  frightened  to  think  how  awful  it  must  be  to  grow 
old,  and  glad  to  think  that  that  misfortune  was  still  remote 
from  her.  Mr.  Venables  started  forward.  "If  only  when 
one  was  young  one  could  bravely  grasp  the  fact  of  age  and 
death  or  of  death  without  age — instead  of  shrinking  and 
shrinking  and  shelving  the  idea  as  morbid  or  horrid  or  .  .  ." 
The  pendulous  skin  on  his  face  trembled  with  his  keenness. 
One  hand  was  clenched  so  that  the  veins  on  the  back  of  it 
stood  out  like  blue  silk  cords  of  various  thickness.  But  he 
noticed  the  polite  patience  of  his  listeners,  and  pushed  him- 
self back  into  his  chair.  "Well,  there'd  be  no  more  slack- 
ness or  indifference,"  he  wound  up,  rubbing  his  hands 
apologetically. 

"Si  jeunesse  savait,  si  vieillesse  pouvait,"  commented  the 
other  man.  He  was  good-looking,  with  a  neat  moustache. 
The  old  man  pouted  out  his  lips. 

"It's  all  in  trim  enough  little  mottoes,"  he  grumbled. 
"Saving  your  presence,  dear,  I  should  be  inclined  to  add: 
Damn  them:  the  glib  little  mottoes,  the  trim  little  dogmas. 
They're  conductors  to  prevent  people  feeling  the  shock  of 
great  unpleasant  burning  truths.  The  shock  would  be  the 
making  of  most  people." 

"You  ought  not  to  excite  yourself,  now,  Mr.  Venables, 
really  you  oughtn't,"  said  Mrs.  Plummer.  She  was  natu- 
rally rather  nervous  about  him  after  what  the  doctor  had 


324  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

said,  and  relieved  every  time  she  saw  him  drive  safely  away 
in  his  four-wheeler.  The  old  fellow  thrust  out  his  lips  again. 
He  looked  at  the  clock.  It  was  a  quarter  to  ten.  He  never 
left  till  ten.  Habits  like  that  were  dear  to  him.  He  was 
conscious  that  he  had  overweighted  the  conversation  and 
was  sorry.  He  remembered  that  he  often  did  now  and  was 
sorrier. 

"Go  on  about  the  swallows/'  he  growled,  smiling. 

"Oh,  the  swallows.    Yes." 

"Takes  an  aeroplane  to  make  'em  realise  the  wonder  of 
flight,"  he  continued  jovially  to  growl.  "And  a  smash  be- 
fore a  gaping  crowd  the  wonder  of  death." 

"To  think  that  little  birds  can  fly  and  we  can't,"  said  Mrs. 
Plummer  kindly,  to  fill  in  the  pause.  "Like  little  people  fly- 
ing, if  one  only  knew." 

What  she  wished  to  know  remained  vague. 

"Little  people  flying.  Hoo!  I  often  see 'em."  He  looked 
mischievously  round.  He  would  have  given  a  great  deal  to 
make  them  pay  him  less  courtesy  and  more  attention.  That 
look  of  kindly  patience  was  the  worst  penalty  his  age  ex- 
acted. "I  constantly  see  'em.  They  just  stop  to  tell  me  to 
mind  my  own  business  and  be  jolly.  And  they're  off." 

No  one  spoke.  He  got  only  the  indulgent  smile  which 
sent  the  years  closing  down  over  his  head.  He  stood  up, 
trying  to  stoop  as  little  as  his  back  and  neck  would  let 
him. 

"Oh,  you're  not  going?"  someone  said.  Of  which  he  took 
no  notice. 

"I  still  like  bread  and  dripping,"  he  announced.  "And 
what's  more,  I  still  insist  on  having  bread  and  dripping  for 
lunch,  as  I  used  to  when  I  ate  slices  of  it  under  the  nursery 
table.  Then  I  howled  for  it.  Now  I  ask  for  it.  That's 
the  main  difference  between  a  baby  and  an  old  man.  That 
and  a  little  knowledge  I've  picked  up  between-whiles,  and 
—the  fact — that  I'm  friends  with  death  now  and  I  wasn't 
then.  Until  you're  friends  with  death,  young  people,  you 
can  never  love  or  live.  You  can  only  maunder.  I  don't 
blame  you  for  disliking  old  age.  It's  uncomfortable.  Be- 
tween me  and  you  the  connection's  cut,  as  it  usually  is 


THE  BIRTH  OF  AN  ARTIST  325 

with  your  preposterous  telephones.  Never  mind.  I'm  off 
now." 

And  he  wrapped  himself  up  and  went  away.  The  others, 
immediately  after  his  going,  produced  the  bridge  table,  and 
cut  for  partners  and  the  deal.  The  man  who  won  the  deal 
said,  as  he  dealt,  "Poor  old  chap:  he  addresses  each  one  of 
us  as  though  we  were  mankind."  Another  said:  "An  amus- 
ing old  bird."  The  third  said:  "Rather  a  trial,  I  should 
think,  to  his  family."  And  the  fourth  said:  "Oh,  he  has 
none  now."  The  dealer,  looking  keenly  at  his  cards,  re- 
marked: "He  always  goes  at  ten."  He  frowned  harder 
over  his  cards  and,  with  a  sigh,  said:  "Yes.  I'll  do  it. 
Hearts." 

"Shall  I  play  to  hearts,  partner?" 

"Please." 

And  silence  reigned  for  the  game.  The  girl  had  gone  to 
bed. 

II 

Old  Mr.  Venables  lived  on  the  first  floor  of  a  house  in 
Upper  Baker  Street.  Mrs.  Gorton,  the  landlady,  was  the 
widow  of  a  man  who  had  been  Mr.  Venable's  foreman  in  the 
printing  business  he  had  sold  nearly  twenty  years  ago.  She 
met  him  in  the  hall. 

"Not  out  with  your  son,  then?"  he  said. 

"No,  sir,  they  dined  here  and  went  alone.  At  my  age 
I  like  serious  plays  where  it's  all  talking,  not  these  musical 
plays." 

"Fifth  anniversary  of  his  wedding?" 

"No,  sir,  sixth."  ' 

"Dear  me!    The  years  pass,  Mrs.  Gorton,  the  years  pass." 

"They  do,  sir,"  Mrs.  Gorton  cheerfully  acquiesced.  "Good 
night." 

He  went  upstairs  slowly.    Stairs  tried  his  knees,  now. 

He  remembered  how  Gorton — dead  now — came  to  him, 
blushing  and  grinning,  to  speak  about  an  order,  and  turned 
back  at  the  door  to  touch  his  forehead  with  his  forefinger 
and  say,  "It's  a  boy,  sir.  Six-thirty  this  morning."  He 


326  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

remembered  his  own  marriage,  the  birth  of  his  two  children, 
their  death,  his  wife's  death;  and  then  suddenly  all  the 
years  since  his  schooldays  were  wiped  from  his  mind.  He 
so  vividly  remembered  his  first  school  cricket  match  that 
it  seemed  impossible  he  should  be  finding  it  arduous  just 
to  walk  up  a  fe\tf  stairs.  When  he  was  eighteen,  people 
used  to  think  it  marvellous  how  fast  he  ran.  Now  that  he 
was  eighty  people  thought  it  marvellous  how  well  he  got 
about  at  all.  At  the  top  of  the  stairs  he  stopped  a  few 
moments  to  rest  his  knees.  They  were  aching.  He  pushed 
his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head  and  shook  himself.  Then 
he  went  into  his  room.  His  room  was  full  of  books.  The 
lamp  stood  lighted  on  the  table.  He  put  his  hat  and  stick 
on  the  table  and  began  to  pull  off  his  overccat,  which  he 
threw  on  the  sofa — a  lodging-house  scfa  on  which  he  used 
to  put  anything,  but  himself.  He  looked  rcund  at  his  books 
and  rubbed  his  hands.  There  was  a  gleam  in  his  eyes  as  he 
leaned  against  his  bookcase,  and,  lifting  first  one  foot,  then 
the  other,  pushed  off  his  boots  from  the  heel.  His  boots  were 
specially  designed  for  their  ease  of  assumption  and  with- 
drawal. They  were  shelters.  Everything  about  him  no 
longer  typified  attack,  but  resistance. 

However,  he  smiled  round  on  his  books  as  on  great 
friends,  and  trod  gently  into  his  slippers.  He  loved  fat 
folios.  His  eye  lingered  on  North's  Plutarch,  Don  Quixote, 
Tristram  Shandy,  The  Faerie  Queene — he  must  read  a 
special  favourite  that  evening.  He  suspected  it  would  be 
The  Faerie  Queene,  but  chose  to  delay  the  final  choice. 

"Eh!  old  lads,"  he  said:  he  often  talked  and  chuckled  to 
himself.  "I'm  myself  with  you.  With  others,  somehow 
.  .  .  Hoo!  there's  always  been  an  */.  Eh,  you  catch  on? 
If  she  didn't  do  this  or  if  he  didn't  do  that,  what  friends  I'd 
have  been  with  'em." 

He  was  turning  the  pages  of  his  Plutarch,  almost  fondling 
them  as  he  smoothed  out  the  leaves. 

"They  know  how  to  fly  and  rush  about  in  motors:  they've 
telephones  and  telegraphs.  They  know  about  so  many  things. 
But  about  the  thing.  About  life.  I  could  teach  'em  a  bit. 
I  haven't  tho',  I  haven't.  A  dumb  man.  Cantankerous  be- 


THE  BIRTH  OF  AN  ARTIST  327 

cause  I  couldn't  even  amuse  'em.  Just  to  make  'em  realise 
death,  say.  You'd  send  'em  spinning  on  towards  life  and 
love  and  things  that  matter.  Exploiting  their  own  natures 
towards  kindness.  With  proper  values.  Heigh  hoi  I'd 
like  to  start  again  and  do  a  little  better." 

He  put  his  North  back  into  the  shelf. 

"Is  it  just  those  good  Plummers,  do  you  think,  I'm  ill 
at  ease  with,  or  everyone?  It's  they  who  ought,  you  know, 
to  be  eager  to  reform  the  world.  Not  me.  I  ought  to  be 
playing  my  quiet  game  of  whist.  Not  them.  Like  some 
growth  in  me,  this  desire  to  say  things.  A  late  growth. 
Too  late  a  growth.  Hair  grows  on  a  dead  man's  face.  This 
shoots  up  in  my  mind." 

He  did  not  know,  being  alone,  whether  he  was  speaking 
or  whether  he  was  thinking.  Often,  too,  he  didn't  know 
whether  he  was  thinking  or  dreaming.  He  passed  from  one 
state  to  the  other  too  easily  for  the  transition  to  be  re- 
markable. He  took  down  his  Spenser,  a  heavy  volume,  and 
carried  it  in  his  arms  across  the  room  to  his  chair. 

"For  the  last  time.  Each  act  of  mine  may  be.  Who 
knows?  Just  got  a  bit  level  with  all  you  great  fellows,  just 
wanting  to  start  a  little  on  my  own.  Time's  up.  The  whistle 
goes.  Time's  up.  You've  been  too  slow  in  starting,  my 
boy.  That's  all.  A  little  too  slow  in  starting." 

He  began  to  read  the  Faerie  Queene  in  the  middle  of  the 
page  at  which  the  book  opened.  The  words  and  rhythm,  to 
whose  influence  he  was  more  sensitive  than  he  had  ever  been, 
took  him  away  where  the  Faerie  Queene  always  took  him, 
and  his  spirits  responded  to  the  springy  moss  of  an  enormous 
forest.  His  feet,  too,  almost,  though  he  kept  shuffling  them 
more  comfortably  back  into  his  slippers.  The  weight  of  the 
book  on  his  knees  pressed  his  toes  forward.  He  read  on 
until  he  began  to  doze.  His  head  nodded  and  he  caught 
himself  dozing. 

"Now,  then,"  he  said,  "no  time  to  lose,  you've  not,"  and 
he  hitched  the  book  up  on  his  knee  and  sat  as  upright  as  he 
could. 

"Sleep.  You'll  have  your  fill  of  that,  my  boy.  Soon 
enough,"  he  growled,  as  he  arranged  himself. 


328   THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

But  his  head  began  to  nod  again.  His  back  relaxed  into 
the  chair.  The  book  lowered  on  his  knee;  the  hand  that 
held  it  loosened.  He  must  have  fallen  asleep. 

Ill 

The  lamp  still  burned.  It  was  his  own  familiar  chair.  The 
Faerie  Queene  was  on  his  knee.  All  his  surroundings  were 
unchanged.  And  yet  .  .  .  She  was  still  there.  So  he 
repeated  his  question. 

"My  sweet  little  Miss,  who  are  you?" 

And  the  same  thing  happened  again.  The  strange  little 
child  spirit-person  sent  his  last  word  back  on  him  like  an 
echo.  "You." 

The  extraordinary  clearness  of  her  face — its  gravity  and 
roundness — fought  the  extraordinary  fact  of  her  presence 
and  easily  won.  The  little  fear  there  was  just  spiced  his 
pleasure.  His  first  astonishment  yielded,  and  he  looked  at 
her  more  carefully.  "I  couldn't  be  frightened,"  he  thought, 
"even  if  I  wasn't  asleep." 

What  he  chiefly  wondered  was  how  she  could  possibly 
look  so  strong  and  substantial  as  she  did,  when  quite  ob- 
viously her  body  was  not  fashioned  of  flesh,  but  of  some  stuff 
like  that  from  which  primrose  leaves  are  made. 

"Where  do  you  come  from?"  he  asked  vaguely. 

"From  the  open,"  came  the  answer. 

"Well,  it's  very  nice  of  you  to  have  come.  But  you  stand 
there.  Troubled?  What  can  I  do?"  His  words  made  no 
impression  on  her  grave  steady  look.  "Heavenly  to  see  you. 
But  you  see,  it's  nice  for  people  to  feel  at  home  with  one. 
However  they  come." 

"Here?"  He  wasn't  sure  whether  she  spoke  in  pretty 
scorn  or  whether  it  was  his  own  thought,  become  articulate, 
of  the  unfitness  of  the  dingy  room  to  be  a  home  for  a  little 
person  of  her  build  and  beauty. 

She  continued  to  look  at  him.  She  was  evidently  as  per- 
plexed at  seeing  him  as  he  was  at  seeing  her.  Her  perplexity 
tickled  him.  So  he  said: 

"It's  all  very  well,  you  know,  but  this  is  my  room  and 


THE  BIRTH  OF  AN  ARTIST  329 

I  am  just  a  very  old  man,  a  Mr.  Venables;  whereas  you — 
what  are  you?" 

And  again  the  word  came  back  on  him  from  her.  "You." 
But  this  time  there  was  a  frown  on  her  face  and  a  tremble. 
The  same  look  comes  on  the  face  of  a  small  child  about  to 
cry.  She  didn't  cry,  however,  and  still  searched  into  him 
with  her  round  grey  eyes.  Then  suddenly  they  brightened. 
Have  you  ever  been  looking  at  roses  when  the  sun  had 
gleamed  out  on  them?  It  was  like  that.  Only  the  light 
came  from  within  and  glowed  deeplier. 

"It's  all  right,"  she  said.  "I've  not  made  a  mistake.  I 
see  you  at  last  inside  all  that  stuffy  covering.  Come  on!" 

Her  voice  was  like  the  music  of  a  stream  which  took  on 
meaning  a  little  after  the  first  sound  touched  him.  Its  beauty 
seemed  to  set  something  in  him  struggling  to  be  free,  like  a 
child  in  its  mother's  womb.  And  as  though  she  saw  this, 
the  little  spirit-person  laughed  and  said,  "Come  on!" 

"Diaphenia  like  the  daffadowndilly,  do  tell  me  who  you 
are." 

"I  didn't  know  it  would  be  so  difficult.  How  am  I  to  get 
you  free  from  all  that  rubbish?" 

"Tell  me.  Perhaps  I  could  help  you.  Tell  me  who  you 
are,  for  instance/'" 

"I've  told  you.  I'm  you.  All  the  kind  living  thoughts 
from  you  have  become  me,  of  course.  And  I've  been  sent 
to  fetch  you." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head.  "That  couldn't  be.  The 
unkind  living  thoughts.  There'd  be  a  black  monster  com- 
ing. I  suspect  you're  just  the  Faerie  Queene." 

"There's  me  and  there  are  things  that  smell  like  dead 
leaves  and  make  rubbish.  Brains  like  brambles  in  a  thicket. 
Do  come!  I  can't  take  all  that.  And  we've  got  to  pass  on." 

"How  and  where?" 

"Come,  and  you'll  see." 

The  something  in  him  stirred  more  resolutely  at  the  ap- 
peal in  her  voice. 

"Oh!  you  are  getting  free,"  she  cried. 

"Anywhere  with  you." 

It  struggled  and  tore  within  the  old  man,  so  that  he  was 


330  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

frightened  and  could  hardly  speak.  He  tried  to  smile.  The 
little  spirit-person  moved  upon  him.  Delight  shone  from 
her  face.  "You're  mine,"  she  cried.  He  no  longer  saw 
her.  She  was  so  near  him.  She  was  a  part  of  him.  He 
thought  she  must  have  kissed  his  soul. 

"•Ha!  Ha!  we're  free  of  the  ugly  rubbish.  Whole  and 
free." 

The  voice  sang  within  him. 

IV 

Agony  was  on  the  face  of  the  very  old  man,  Mr.  Venables, 
as  he  sat  in  his  chair,  his  eyes  unshut — the  agony  of  the 
last  effort.  He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  stood  more  erect  than 
he  had  for  many  years.  There  were  drops  of  sweat  on  his 
forehead.  He  fell  on  his  knees.  His  hands  were  clenched. 
He  tried  to  raise 'them  and  cry  out: 

"And— men— fear— death! " 

He  felt  that  the  sound  of  his  words  crashed  through  the 
room  and  out  into  the  world,  so  that  all  men  must  surely 
hear  and  heed  their  meaning:  words  written  in  a  flame  on 
the  sky,  and  shouted  in  a  laugh  of  thunder. 

But  as  a  matter  of  fact  his  voice  only  whispered,  the 
corners  of  his  mouth  only  twitched,  and  he  fell  forward  in  a 
heap  on  the  floor.  His  arm  fell  on  the  fire-irons,  and  they 
made  such  a  clatter  that  Mrs.  Gorton,  who  never  went  to 
bed  early,  came  up  to  see  what  was  the  matter.  She  tapped, 
and  receiving  no  response  to  her  tapping,  opened  the  door 
and  came  in.  She  hurried  towards  him:  then  stopped  mid- 
way with  a  gasp  and  hurried  back.  Six  doors  up  the  street 
a  doctor  lived.  She  fetched  him. 

The  doctor  straightened  Mr.  yenables  out  on  the  floor, 
and  felt  his  pulse:  then  he  put  his  hand  on  Mr.  Venables's 
heart. 

"Poor  old  gentleman,"  he  said.    "Quite  dead." 

They  stood  looking  very  solemnly,  first  at  each  other, 
then  at  the  body.  The  doctor  said:  "Not  heavy.  I  think 
we  can  manage  it." 

So  they  carried  it  into  the  bedroom  and  laid  it  on  Mr. 


THE  BIRTH  OP  AN  ARTIST  331 

Venables's  bed.  The  doctor  helped  Mrs.  Gorton  undress  it 
and  put  on  it  a  clean  nightshirt.  They  left  it  between  the 
sheets  of  the  bed. 

After  the  doctor  went,  Mrs.  Gorton  drank  a  glass  of 
cold  water,  because  she  felt  rather  sick,  and  telephoned  to 
Mr.  Plummer. 

Mr.  Plummer  was  just  finishing  his  rubber,  and  thought 
it  advisable  not  to  shock  his  wife  with  the  sad  news  that 
night.  But  he  was  quite  as  kind-hearted  as  his  wife,  and 
cheerfully  undertook  all  the  trouble  of  the  body's  disposal, 
though  he  knew  that  the  money  left  him  would  be  hardly 
sufficient  to  cover  his  last  year's  losses  at  cards,  of  which 
he  kept  careful  note. 

Mrs.  Gorton  did  not  like  to  be  alone  in  the  house  with 
a  corpse.  She  found  there  was  ample  time  to  meet  her 
son  and  his  wife  at  the  station  and  go  with  them  to  their  flat 
in  Balham  to  sleep.  So  she  left  the  gas  on  the  glimmer  in 
the  bedroom,  where  the  very  old  body  lay  stiffening  be- 
tween the  white  sheets,  and  very  wisely  went. 


A  SICK  COLLIER1 

BY  D.  H.  LAWRENCE 

SHE  was  too  good  for  him,  everybody  said.  Yet  still 
she  did  not  regret  marrying  him.  He  had  come  court- 
ing her  when  he  was  only  nineteen,  and  she  twenty. 
He  was  in  build  what  they  call  a  tight  little  fellow;  short, 
dark,  with  a  warm  colour,  and  that  upright  set  of  the  head 
and  chest,  that  flaunting  way  in  movement  recalling  a  mat- 
ing bird,  which  denotes  a  body  taut  and  compact  with  life. 
Being  a  good  worker  he  had  earned  decent  money  in  the 
mine,  and  having  a  good  home  had  saved  a  little. 

She  was  a  cook  at  "Uplands,"  a  tall,  fair  girl,  very  quiet. 
Having  seen  her  walk  down  the  street,  Horsepool  had  fol- 
lowed her  from  a  distance.  He  was  taken  with  her,  he  did 
not  drink,  and  he  was  not  lazy.  So,  although  he  seemed  a 
bit  simple,  without  much  intelligence,  but  having  a  sort  of 
physical  brightness,  she  considered,  and  accepted  him. 

When  they  were  married  they  went  to  live  in  Scargill 
Street,  in  a  highly  respectable  six-roomed  house  which  they 
had  furnished  between  them.  The  street  was  built  up  the 
side  of  a  long,  steep  hill.  It  was  narrow  and  rather  tunnel- 
like.  Nevertheless,  the  back  looked  out  over  the  adjoining 
pasture,  across  a  wide  valley  of  fields  and  woods,  in  the 
bottom  of  which  the  mine  lay  snugly. 

He  made  himself  gaffer  in  his  own  house.  She  was  un- 
acquainted with  a  collier's  mode  of  life.  They  were  married 
on  a  Saturday.  On  the  Sunday  night  he  said: 

"Set  th'  table  for  my  breakfast,  an'  put  my  pit-things 

'From  'The  Prussian  Officer."  By  permission  of  B.  W. 
Huebsch. 

332 


A  SICK  COLLIER  333 

afront  o'  th'  fire.  I  s'll  be  gettin'  up  at  ha'ef  pas'  five.  Tha 
nedna  shift  thysen  not  till  when  ter  likes." 

He  showed  her  how  to  put  a  newspaper  on  the  table  for  a 
cloth.  When  she  demurred: 

"I  want  none  o'  your  white  cloths  i'  th'  mornin'.  I  like 
ter  be  able  to  slobber  if  I  feel  like  it,"  he  said. 

He  put  before  the  fire  his  moleskin  trousers,  a  clean  sing- 
let, or  sleeveless  vest  of  thick  flannel,  a  pair  of  stockings 
and  his  pit  boots,  arranging  them  all  to  be  warm  and  ready 
for  morning. 

"Now  tha  sees.    That  wants  doin'  ivery  night." 

Punctually  at  half-past  five  he  left  her,  without  any  form' 
of  leave-taking,  going  downstairs  in  his  shirt. 

When  he  arrived  home  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
his  dinner  was  ready  to  be  dished  up.  She  was  startled 
when  he  came  in,  a  short,  sturdy  figure,  with  a  face  in- 
describably black  and  streaked.  She  stood  before  the  fire 
in  her  white  blouse  and  white  apron,  a  fair  girl,  the  picture 
of  beautiful  cleanliness.  He  "clommaxed"  in,  in  his  heavy 
boots. 

"Well,  how  'as  ter  gone  on?"  he  asked. 

"I  was  ready  for  you  to  come  home,"  she  replied  tenderly. 
In  his  black  face  the  whites  of  his  brown  eyes  flashed 
at  her. 

"An'  I  wor  ready  for  comin',"  he  said.  He  planked  his 
tin  bottle  and  snap-bag  on  the  dresser,  took  off  his  coat  and 
scarf  and  waistcoat,  dragged  his  arm-chair  nearer  the  fire 
and  sat  down. 

"Let's  ha'e  a  bit  o'  dinner,  then — I'm  about  clammed," 
he  sai'd. 

"Aren't  you  goin'  to  wash  yourself  first?" 

"What  am  I  to  wesh  mysen  for?" 

"Well,  you  can't  eat  your  dinner " 

"Oh,  strike  a  daisy,  Missis!  Dunna  I  eat  my  snap  i'  th' 
pit  wi'out  weshin'? forced  to." 

She  served  the  dinner  and  sat  opposite  him.  His  small 
bullet  head  was  quite  black,  save  for  the  whites  of  his  eyes 
and  his  scarlet  lips.  It  gave  her  a  queer  sensation  to  see 
him  open  his  red  mouth  and  bare  his  white  teeth  as  he  ate. 


334  THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

His  arms  and  hands  were  mottled  black;  his  bare,  strong 
neck  got  a  little  fairer  as  it  settled  towards  his  shoulders, 
reassuring  her.  There  was  the  faint  indescribable  odour 
of  the  pit  in  the  room,  an  odour  of  damp,  exhausted  air. 

"Why  is  your  vest  so  black  on  the  shoulders?"  she 
asked. 

"My  singlet?  That's  wi'  th>  watter  droppin'  on  us  from 
th'  roof.  This  is  a  dry  un  as  I  put  on  afore  I  come  up. 
They  ha'e  gre't  clothes- 'osses,  an'  as  we  change  us  things, 
we  put  'em  on  theer  ter  dry." 

When  he  washed  himself,  kneeling  on  the  hearth-rug 
stripped  to  the  waist,  she  felt  afraid  of  him  again.  He  was 
so  muscular,  he  seemed  so  intent  on  what  he  was  doing,  so 
intensely  himself,  like  a  vigorous  animal.  And  as  he  stood 
wiping  himself,  with  his  naked  breast  towards  her,  she  felt 
rather  sick,  seeing  his  thick  arms  bulge  their  muscles. 

They  were  nevertheless  very  happy.  He  was  at  a  great 
pitch  of  pride  because  of  her.  The  men  in  the  pit  might 
chaff  him,  they  might  try  to  entice  him  away,  but  nothing 
could  reduce  his  self-assured  pride  because  of  her,  nothing 
could  unsettle  his  almost  infantile  satisfaction.  In  the  even- 
ing he  sat  in  his  arm-chair  chattering  to  her,  or  listening  as^ 
she  read  the  newspaper  to  him.  When  it  was  fine,  he  would 
go  into  the  street,  squat  on  his  heels  as  colliers  do,  with  his 
back  against  the  wall  of  his  parlour,  and  call  to  the  passers- 
by,  in  greeting,  one  after  another.  If  no  one  were  passing, 
he  was  content  just  to  squat  and  smoke,  having  such  a  fund 
of  sufficiency  and  satisfaction  in  his  heart.  He  was  well 
married. 

They  had  not  been  wed  a  year  when  all  Brent  and  Well- 
wood's  men  came  out  on  strike.  Willy  was  in  the  Union, 
so  with  a  pinch  they  scrambled  through.  The  furniture 
was  not  all  paid  for,  and  other  debts  were  incurred.  She 
worried  and  contrived,  he  left  it  to  her.  But  he  was  a  good1 
husband ;  he  gave  her  all  he  had. 

The  men  were  out  fifteen  weeks.  They  had  been  back 
just  over  a  year  when  Willy  had  an  accident  in  the  mine, 
tearing  his  bladder.  At  the  pit  head  the  doctor  talked  of 
the  hospital.  Losing  his  head  entirely,  the  young  collier 


A  SICK  COLLIER  335 

raved  like  a  madman,  what  with  pain  and  fear  of  hospital. 

"Tha  s'lt  go  whoam,  Willy,  tha  s'lt  go.whoam,"  the  deputy 
said. 

A  lad  warned  the  wife  to  have  the  bed  ready.  Without 
speaking  or  hesitating  she  prepared.  But  when  the  ambu- 
lance came,  and  she  heard  him  shout  with  pain  at  being 
moved,  she  was  afraid  lest  she  should  sink  down.  They 
carried  him  in. 

"Yo'  should  'a'  had  a  bed  i'  th'  parlour,  Missis,"  said  the 
deputy,  "then  we  shouldna  ha'  had  to  hawkse  'im  upstairs, 
an'  it  'ud  'a'  saved  your  legs." 

But  it  was  too  late  now.    They  got  him  upstairs. 

"They  let  me  lie,  Lucy,"  he  was  crying,  "they  let  me  lie 
two  mortal  hours  on  th'  sleek  afore  they  took  me  outer  th' 
stall.  Th'  peen,  Lucy,  th'  peen;  oh,  Lucy,  th'  peen,  th' 
peenl" 

"I  know  th'  pain's  bad,  Willy,  I  know.  But  you  must 
try  an'  bear  it  a  bit." 

"Tha  munna  carry  on  in  that  form,  lad,  thy  missis'll 
niver  be  able  ter  stan'  it,"  said  the  deputy. 

"I  canna  'elp  it,  it's  th'  peen,  it's  th'  peen,"  he  cried 
again.  He  had  never  been  ill  in  his  life.  When  he  had 
smashed  a  finger  he  could  look  at  the  wound.  But  this 
pain  came  from  inside,  and  terrified  him.  At  last  he  was 
soothed  and  exhausted. 

It  was  some  time  before  she  could  undress  him  and  wash 
him.  He  would  let  no  other  woman  do  for  him,  having 
that  savage  modesty  usual  in  such  men. 

For  six  weeks  he  was  in  bed,  suffering  much  pain.  The 
doctors  were  not  quite  sure  what  was  the  matter  with  him, 
and  scarcely  knew  what  to  do.  He  could  eat,  he  did  not 
lose  flesh,  nor  strength,  yet  the  pain  continued,  and  he 
could  hardly  walk  at  all. 

In  the  sixth  week  the  men  came  out  in  the  national 
strike.  He  would  get  UD  quite  early  in  the  morning  and 
sit  by  the  window.  On  Wednesday,  the  second  week  of  the 
strike,  he  sat  gazing  out  on  the  street  as  usual,  a  bullet- 
headed  young  man,  still  vigorous-looking,  but  with  a  peculiar 
expression  of  hunted  fear  in  his  face. 


336  THE  GREAT  MODERN,  ENGLISH  STORIES 

"Lucy,"  he  called,  "Lucy!" 

She,  pale  and  worn,  ran  upstairs  at  his  bidding. 

"Gi'e  me  a  han'kercher,"  he  said. 

"Why,  you've  got  one,"  she  replied,  coming  near. 

"Tha  nedna  touch  me,"  he  cried.  Feeling  his  pocket,  he 
produced  a  white  handkerchief. 

"I  non  want  a  white  un,  gi'e  me  a  red  un,"  he  said. 

"An'  if  anybody  comes  to  see  you,"  she  answered,  giving 
him  a  red  handkerchief. 

"Besides,"  she  continued,  "you  needn't  ha'  brought  me 
upstairs  for  that."  , 

"I  b'lieve  th'  peen's  commin'  on  again,"  he  said,  with  a 
little  horror  in  his  voice. 

"It  isn't,  you  know  it  isn't,"  she  replied.  "The  doctor 
says  you  imagine  it's  there  when  it  isn't." 

"Canna  I  feel  what's  inside  me?"  he  shouted. 

"There's  a  traction-engine  coming  downhill,"  she  said. 
"That'll  scatter  them. — I'll  just  go  an'  finish  your  pud- 
ding." 

She  left  him.  The  traction-engine  went  by,  shaking  the 
houses.  Then  the  street  was  quiet,  save  for  the  men.  A 
gang  of  youths  from  fifteen  to  twenty-five  years  old  were 
playing  marbles  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  Other  little 
groups  of  men  were  playing  on  the  pavement.  The  street 
.was  gloomy.  Willy  could  hear  the  endless  calling  and 
shouting  of  men's  voices. 

"Tha'rt  skinchin'!" 

"I  arena!" 

"Come  'ere  with  that  blood-alley." 

"Swop  us  four  for't." 

"Shonna,  gie's  hold  on't." 

He  wanted  to  be  out,  he  wanted  to  be  playing  marbles. 
The  pain  had  weakened  his  mind,  so  that  he  hardly  knew 
any  self-control. 

Presently  another  gang  of  men  lounged  up  the  street.  It 
was  pay  morning.  The  Union  was  paying  the  men  in  the 
Primitive  Chapel.  They  were  returning  with  their  half- 
sovereigns. 

"Sorry!"  bawled  a  voice.    "Sorry!" 


A  SICK  COLLIER  337 

The  word  is  a  form  of  address,  corruption  probably  of 
"Sirrah."  Willy  started  almost  out  of  his  chair. 

"Sorry!"  again  bawled  a  great  voice.  "Art  goin'  wi'  me 
to  see  Notts  play  Villa?" 

Many  of  the  marble  players  started  up. 

"What  time  is  it?  There's  no  treens,  we  sll  ha'e  ter 
walk." 

The  street  was  alive  with  men. 

"Who's  goin'  ter  Nottingham  ter  see  th'  match?"  shouted 
the  same  big  voice.  A  very  large,  tipsy  man,  with  his  cap 
over  his  eye,  was  calling. 

"Com'  on — aye,  com'  on!"  came  many  voices.  The  street 
was  full  of  the  shouting  of  men.  They  split  up  in  excited 
cliques  and  groups. 

"Play  up,  Notts!"  the  big  man  shouted. 

"Plee  up,  Notts!"  shouted  the  youths  and  men.  They 
were  at  kindling  pitch.  It  only  needed  a  shout  to  rouse 
them.  Of  this  the  careful  authorities  were  aware. 

"I'm  goin',  I'm  goin'!"  shouted  the  sick  man  at  his 
window. 

Lucy  came  running  upstairs. 

"I'm  goin'  ter  see  Notts  play  Villa  on  th'  Meadows 
ground,"  he  declared. 

"You — you  can't  go.  There  are  no  trains.  You  can't 
walk  nine  miles." 

"I'm  goin'  ter  see  th'  match,"  he  declared,  rising. 

"You  know  you  can't.    Sit  down  now'an'  be  quiet" 

She  put  her  hand  on  him.    He  shook  it  off. 

"Leave  me  alone,  leave  me  alone.  It's  thee  as  ma'es  th' 
peen  come,  it's  thee.  I'm  goin'  ter  Nottingham  to  see  th' 
football  match." 

"Sit  down— folks'll  hear  you,  and  what  will  they  think?" 

"Come  off'n  me.  Com'  off.  It's  her,  it's  her  as  does  it. 
Com'  off." 

He  seized  hold  of  her.  His  little  head  was  bristling  with 
madness,  and  he  was  strong  as  a  lion. 

"Oh,  Willy!"  she  cried. 

"It's  'er,  it's  'er.    Kill  her! "  he  shouted,  "kill  her." 

"Willy,  folks'll  hear  you." 


338    THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

"Th'  peen's  commin*  on  again,  I  tell  yer.  Ill  kill  her 
for  it." 

He  was  completely  out  of  his  mind.  She  struggled  with 
him  to  prevent  his  going  to  the  stairs.  When  she  escaped 
from  him,  who  was  shouting  and  raving,  she  beckoned  to  her 
neighbour,  a  girl  of  twenty-four,  who  was  cleaning  the  win- 
dow across  the  road. 

Ethel  Mellor  was  the  daughter  of  a  well-to-do  check- 
weighman.  She  ran  across  in  fear  to  Mrs.  Horsepool.  Hear- 
ing the  man  raving,  people  were  running  out  in  the  street 
and  listening.  Ethel  hurried  upstairs.  Everything  was 
clean  and  pretty  in  the  young  home. 

Willy  was  staggering  round  the  room,  after  the  slowly 
retreating  Lucy,  shouting: 

"Kill  her!     Kill  her!" 

"Mr.  Horsepool!"  cried  Ethel,  leaning  against  the  bed, 
white  as  the  sheets,  and  trembling.  "Whatever  are  you 
saying?" 

"I  tell  yer  it's  'er  fault  as  th'  pain  comes  on — I  tell  yer 
it  is!  Kill  'er— kill  'erl" 

"Kill  Mrs.  Horsepool!"  cried  the  trembling  girl.  "Why, 
you're  ever  so  fond  of  her,  you  know  you  are." 

"The  peen— I  ha'e  such  a  lot  o'  peen— I  want  to  kill  'er." 

He  was  subsiding.  When  he  sat  down  his  wife  collapsed 
in  a  chair,  weeping  noiselessly.  The  tears  ran  dowr  Ethel's 
face.  He  sat  staring  out  of  the  window;  then  the  old,  hurt 
look  came  on  his  face. 

"What  'ave  I  been  sayin?"  he  asked,  looking  piteously 
at  his  wife. 

"Why!"  said  Ethel,  "youVe  been  carrying  on  something 
awful,  saying,  'Kill  her,  kill  herl'" 

"Have  I,  Lucy?"  he  faltered. 

"You  didn't  know  what  you  was  saying/'  said  his  young 
wife  gently  but  coldly. 

His  face  puckered  up.  He  bit  his  lip,  then  broke  into 
tears,  sobbing  uncontrollably,  with  his  face  to  the  window. 

There  was  no  sound  in  the  room  but  of  three  people  cry- 
ing bitterly,  breath  caught  in  sobs.  Suddenly  Lucy  put 
away  her  tears  and  went  over  to  him. 


A  SICK  COLLIER  339 

"You  didn't  know  what  you  was  saying  Willy,  I  know 
you  didn't.  I  knew  you  didn't  all  the  time.  It  doesn't 
matter,  Willy.  Only  don't  do  it  again." 

In  a  little  while,  when  they  were  calmer,  she  went  down- 
stairs with  Ethel. 

"See  if  anybody  is  looking  in  the  street,"  she  said. 

Ethel  went  into  the  parlour  and  peeped  through  the  cur- 
tains. 

"Aye!"  she  said.  "You  may  back  your  life  Lena  an' 
Mrs.  Severn'll  be  out  gorping,  and  that  clatfartin'  Mrs, 
Allsop." 

"Oh,  I  hope  they  haven't  heard  anything!  If  it  gets 
about  as  he's  out  of  his  mind,  they'll  stop  his  compensation, 
I  know  they  will." 

"They'd  never  stop  his  compensation  for  that'9  protested 
Ethel. 

"Well,  they  have  been  stopping  some " 

"It'll  not  get  about.    I  s'll  tell  nobody." 

"Oh,  but  if  it  does,  whatever  shall  we  do?    .    .    ." 


GREATER  THAN  LOVE1 

BY  CARADOC  EVANS 

ESTHER  knew  the  sun  had  risen  because  she  could 
number  the  ripening  cheeses  arrayed  on  the  floor 
against  the  wall.  She  threw  back  the  shawl  and  sacks 
that  covered  her,  and  descending  by  the  ladder  into  the 
kitchen,  withdrew  the  bolt  and  opened  the  door. 

"Goodness  all!  Late  terrible  am  I,"  she  said  to  the  young 
man  who  entered.  "Bring  you  the  cows  in  a  hurry,  boy 
bach." 

"Talk  you  like  that,  Esther,  when  the  old  animals  are 
in  the  close." 

Esther  knelt  on  the  hearth  and  lit  the  dried  furze  thereon. 

"The  buckets  are  in  the  milk-house,"  she  went  on.  "Boy 
bach,  hie  you  away  off  and  make  a  start.  Come  I  will  as 
soon  as  I  am  ready." 

The  young  man  shuffled  across  the  floor  into  the  dairy. 
He  came  back  with  two  buckets  and  a  wooden  tub,  and  he 
placed  the  tub  on  the  ground'and  sat  on  its  edge. 

"This  is  the  day  of  the  seaside,"  he  said. 

Esther  turned  her  face  away  from  the  smoke  that 
ascended  from  the  fire. 

"Indeed,  indeed,  now,  Sam  bach!"  she  cried,  "and  you 
don't  say  so  then!" 

"Esther  fach,  vexful  the  move  of  your  tongue.  Say  to  me 
whose  cart  is  carting  you?" 

"Who  speeched  that  I  was  going,  Sam  the  son  of  Ginni?" 

"Don't  you  be  laughing,  Esther.  Tell  me  now  whose 
cart  is  carting  you." 

1  From  "My  People."    Published  by  Boni  and  Liveright,  Inc. 

340 


GREATER  THAN  LOVE  341 

"Go  I  would  for  sure  into  Morfa,  but,  dear  me,  no  one 
will  have  me,"  said  Esther. 

"What  for  you  cry  mischief  when  there's  no  mischief  to 
be?"  said  Sam. 

Esther  tore  off  pieces  of  peat  and  arranged  them  lightly 
on  the  furze. 

"Nice  place  is  Morfa,"  she  observed. 

"Girl  fach,  iss,"  Sam  said.  "Nice  will  be  to  go  out  in 
Twmmi's  boat.  Speak  you  that  you  will  spend  the  day  with 
me." 

"How  say  Catrin!  Sober  serious!  How  will  Catrin  the 
daughter  of  Rachel  speak  if  you  don't  go  with  her?" 

"Mention  you  Catrin,  Esther  fach,  what  for?" 

"Is  there  not  loud  speakings  that  you  have  courted  Catrin 
in  bed?  Very  full  is  her  belly." 

"Esther!  Esther!  Why  you  make  me  savage  like  an 
old  rabbit?  Why  for  play  old  pranks?  Wrench  fach, 
others  have  been  into  Catrin.  If  I  die,  this  is  true.  Do  you 
believe  me  now?" 

Esther  plagued  him,  saying: 

"Bring  me  small  fairings  home,  Sam  bach.  Did  I  not 
give  you  a  knife  when  I  went  to  the  Fair  of  the  Month  of 
April?" 

Sam  took  out  his  knife,  and  sharpened  the  blade  on  the 
leather  of  his  clog. 

"Grateful  was  I  for  the  nice  knife,"  he  said.  "Did  I  not 
stick  Old  Shemmi's  pig  with  it,  Esther  fach?" 

"Well— well,  then?" 

"Look  you,  there's  old  murmuring  that  you  were  taken  in 
mischief  with  the  Schoolin'  in  Abram's  hen  loft,"  said  Sam. 

Esther  rose  to  her  feet  and  looked  upon  him.  This  is  the 
manner  of  man  she  saw:  a  short,  bent-shouldered,  stunted 
youth;  his  face  had  never  been  shaved  and  was  covered  with 
tawny  hair,  and  his  eyes  were  sluggish. 

Esther  laughed. 

"Boy  bach,  unfamiliar  you  are,"  she  said. 

"Mam  did  say,"  Sam  proceeded,  "that  I  ought  not  to  wed 
a  shiftless  female  who  doesn't  take  Communion  in  Capel 
Sion." 


342   THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

"Your  mother  Old  Ginni  is  right,"  said  Esther.  "Keep 
you  on  with  Catrin.  Ugly  is  Catrin  with  bad  pimples  in  her 
face.  But  listen  you,  Sam;  a  large  ladi  I  will  be.  I  don't 
want  louts  like  you." 

The  fire  was  under  way;  Esther  rolled  up  to  her  waist  her 
outer  petticoat  and  she  put  on  an  apron. 

"Why  sit  you  there  like  a  donkey?"  she  cried.  "Away 
you  and  do  the  milking." 

"Esther  fach,  come  you  to  Morfa,"  Sam  pleaded. 

"For  sure  I'm  coming  to  Morfa,"  Esther  answered.  "But 
not  with  you.  Am  I  not  going  to  find  a  love  there?" 

Then  they  went  forth  into  the  close  to  milk  Old  Shem- 
mi's cows,  and  while  they  did  so  each  chanted: 

"There's  a  nice  cow  is  Gwen! 

Milk  she  gives  indeed ! 
More  milk,  little  Gwen ;   more  milk ! 
A  cow  fach  is  Gwen," — 

thereby  coaxing  the  animals  to  give  their  full  yield. 

When  the  milk  was  separated  Esther  put  on  her  Sabbath 
garments  and  drew  her  red  hair  tightly  over  her  forehead, 
and  she  took  her  place  in  Shemmi's  hay- waggon.  There 
were  many  in  the  waggon  other  than  Esther  and  Sam,  for 
the  custom  is  that  the  farmer  takes  his  servants  and  those 
who  have  helped  him  without  payment  in  the  hayfieid  freely 
on  a  set  day  to  the  Sea  of  Morfa. 

Shemmi's  waggon  reached  Morfa  before  the  dew  had 
lifted,  and  towards  the  heat  of  the  day  (after  they  had 
eaten)  the  people  of  Manteg  gathered  together.  One  said: 
"Come  you  down  to  the  brim  now,  and  let  us  wash  our  little 
bodies."  The  men  bathed  nakedly:  the  women  had  brought 
spare  petticoats  with  them,  and  these  they  wore  when  they 
were  in  the  water. 

Esther  changed  her  behaviour  when  she  got  to  Morfa,  and 
she  feigned  herself  above  all  who  had  come  from  Manteg, 
and  while  she  sat  alone  in  the  shadow  of  a  cliff  there  came  to 
her  Hws  Morris,  a  young  man  who  was  in  training  to  be  a 
minister.  Mishtir  Morris  was  elegant:  his  clothes  were 
black  and  he  had  a  white  collar  around  his  neck  and  wh;te 


GREATER  THAN  LOVE  343 

cuffs  at  the  ends  of  his  sleeves,  and  on  his  feet  he  had 
brown  shoes  of  canvas. 

Hws  Morris  took  off  from  his  head  his  black  hat,  which 
was  of  straw,  and  said  to  Esther: 

"Sure  now,  come  you  from  Squire  Pryce's  household? 
You  are  his  daughter  indeed?" 

"Stranger  bach,"  answered  Esther,  "say  you  like  that, 
what  for?" 

"A  ladi  you  seem,"  said  Hws  Morris. 

Esther  was  vain,  and  she  did  not  perceive  through  the 
man's  artifice. 

"Indeed,  indeed,  then,"  said  Hws  Morris,  "speak  from 
where  you  are." 

"Did  you  not  say  I  was  Squire  Pryce's  daughter?"  said 
Esther. 

"Ho,  ho,  old  boy  wise  is  Squire  Pryce." 

Esther  turned  her  eyes  upon  the  bathers.  Catrin  and 
another  woman  were  knee-deep  in  the  water ;  between  them, 
their  hands  linked,  Sam.  She  heard  Bertha  Daviss  crying 
from  the  shore:  "Don't  you  wet  it,  Sam  bach." 

Hws  Morris  placed  the  tips  of  his  fingers  into  his  ears. 

"This,"  he  mourned,  "after  two  thousands  years  of  re- 
ligion. They  need  the  little  Gospel." 

"Very  respectable  to  be  a  preacher  it  is,"  said  Esther. 

"And  to  be  a  preacher's  mistress,"  said  Hws  Morris. 
"Great  is  the  work  the  Big  Man  has  called  me  to  do." 

A  murmuring  came  from  the  women  on  the  beach:  Sam 
was  struggling  in  the  water.  Esther  moved  a  little  nearer 
the  sea. 

"Where  was  you  going  to,  then?"  asked  Hws  Morris. 
"You  was  not  going  to  bathe  with  them?" 

"Why  for  no?" 

"See  you  how  immodest  they  are.  Girl  fach,  stay  you 
here.  If  you  need  to  wash  your  body,  go  you  round  to  the 
backhead  of  the  old  stones  and  take  off  your  clothes  and 
bathe  where  no  eyes  will  gaze  on  you." 

The  murmuring  now  sounded  violent:  Lloyd  the  Schoolin' 
was  swimming  towards  Sam. 

Esther  passed  beyond  the  stones,  and  in  a  cave  she  cast 


344  THE  GREAT  MODERN^  ENGLISH  STORIES 

off  her  clothes  and  walked  into  the  sea;  and  having  cleansed 
herself,  she  dried  her  skin  in  the  heat  of  the  sun.  When 
she  got  out  from  the  cave,  Hws  Morris  came  up  to  her. 

"Hungry  you  are,"  he  said  to  her.  "Return  you  into  the 
cave  and  eat  a  little  of  this  cake." 

He  led  her  far  inside,  so  far  that  they  could  not  see 
anything  that  was  outside.  Hws  Morris  placed  his  arm  over 
Esther's  shoulders,  and  his  white  fingers  moved  lightly  over 
her  breast  to  her  thigh.  He  stole  her  heart. 

Esther  heard  a  voice  crying  her  name. 

"Wench  fach,"  said  Hws  Morris  to  her,  "let  none  know 
of  our  business." 

Sam  shouted  her  name  against  the  rocks  and  over  the 
sea;  he  cried  it  in  the  ears  of  strange  people  and  at  the 
doors  of  strange  houses.  Towards  dusk  he  said  to  the 
women  who  were  waiting  for  Shemmi's  hay  waggon  to  start 
home:  "Little  females,  why  is  Esther  not  here?" 

Catrin  jeered  at  him:   "Filling  her  belly  is  Esther." 

"'But  say  you've  seen  Esther  fach!"  Sam  cried. 

"Twt,  twt!"  said  Bertha  Daviss.  "What's  the  matter 
with  the  boy?  Take  him  in  your  arms,  Catrin,  and  take  him 
to  your  bed." 

"Speak  you  Esther  is  not  drowned,"  Sam  urged. 

"Drowned!"  Catrin  repeated  loudly.  "Good  if  the  bad 
concubine  is." 

"Evil  is  the  wench,"  said  Bertha  Daviss.  "Remember 
how  she  tried  to  snare  Rhys  Shop." 

"Fond  little  women,"  Sam  cried,  "say  you  that  Esther 
fach  is  not  drowned." 

"Sam,  indeed  to  goodness,"  Bertha  said  to  him,  "trouble 
not  your  mind  about  a  harlot." 

"Now,  dear  me,"  answered  Sam,  "foolish  is  your  speech, 
Bertha.  How  shall  I  come  home  without  Esther?" 

"There's  Catrin,  Sam  bach.  Owe  you  nothing  to  Catrin? 
Is  she  not  in  child  by  you?" 

Old  Shemmi's  hay  waggon  came  into  the  roadway,  and 
Sam  said  to  the  man  who  drove  the  horse: 

"Male  bach  nice,  don't  you  begin  before  Esther  comes, 
and  she  will  be  soon.  Maybe  she's  sleeping." 


GREATER  THAN  LOVE  345 

"In  the  arms  of  a  man,"  said  Catrin. 

Sam  placed  his  hands  around  his  mouth  and  shouted 
Esther's  name. 

The  people  entered  the  waggon:  Sam  remained  in  the 
road. 

"Find  you  her,  Sam  bach!"  Catrin  cried.  "Ask  the  Bad 
Spirit  if  he  has  seen  her." 

Old  Shemmi's  mare  began  the  way  home. 

Sam  hastened  back  to  the  beach:  the  tide  was  coming  in, 
and  he  walked  through  tlie  waters,  shouting,  moaning,  and 
lamenting.  At  last  he  beheld  Esther,  and  an  awful  wrath 
was  kindled  within  him.  As  he  had  loved  her,  so  he  now 
hated  her:  he  hated  even  more  than  he  had  loved  her.  He 
had  gone  on  the  highway  that  ends  in  Llanon.  At  a  little 
distance  in  front  of  him  he  saw  her  with  a  man,  and  he 
crept  close  to  them  and  he  heard  their  voices.  He  heard 
Esther  saying: 

"Don't  you  send  me  away  now.    Let  me  stay  with  you." 

The  man  answered:  "Shut  your  throat,  you  temptress. 
For  why  did  you  flaunt  your  body  before  my  religious 
eyes?" 

"Did  you  not  make  fair  speeches  to  me?"  said  Esther. 

"Terrible  is  your  sin,"  said  the  man.  "Turn  away  from 
me.  Little  Big  Man  bach,  forgive  me  for  eating  of  the 
wench's  fruit." 

Sam  came  up  to  them  by  stealth. 

"Out  of  your  head  you  must  be,  boy  bach,  to  make  sin 
with  Esther,"  he  said. 

Hws  Morris  looked  into  Sam's  face,  and  a  horrid  fear 
struck  him,  and  he  ran:  and  Sam  opened  his  knife  and 
running  after  him,  caught  him  and  killed  him.  He  had  diffi- 
culty in  drawing  away  the  blade,  because  it  had  entered  into 
the  man's  skull.  Then  he  returned  to  the  place  where 
Esther  was,  and  her  he  killed  also. 


BIRTH 

BY  GILBERT  CANNAN 

TWO  young  men  lay  in  a  punt  by  a  wide  meadow  be- 
tween Godstow  and  Eynsham.    They  were  dressed  in 
flannels  and  their  hair  was  wet  from  bathing  in  the 
river.     They  were  about  the  same  age,  anything  between 
twenty-five  and  thirty-three.    One  of  them  wore  a  happy, 
pleased   expression,   the  other  seemed   much  older,  more 
thoughtful  and  preoccupied.    They  were  having  tea. 

Martin  raised  his  cup  to  his  lips,  put  it  down  again,  and  a 
serious  expression  came  across  his  happy  face. 

"Life  is  so  grey,"  he  said. 

His  friend  looked  up  from  lighting  his  pipe,  and  his  ex- 
pression of  preternatural  gravity  changed  to  a  look  almost 
quizzical. 

"For  you?"  he  said. 

"No,  Ray.    I  mean  for  all  the  other  poor  devils/' 

He  turned  lazily  over  on  his  side,  and  looked  out  over 
the  edge  of  the  punt,  reached  out  his  hand  and  plucked  a 
water-fly  from  the  surface  of  the  water  where  it  was  skim- 
ming in  circles. 

"Oh!  poor  beast!  I've  broken  its  wing!  .  .  .  that's 
what  I  mean.  .  .  .  That's  how  so  many  of  them  go 
through  life,  with  their  wings  broken  .  .  .  right  from  the 
very  beginning.  What  chance  do  they  have?" 

"They're  alive." 

"Are  they?    You  don't  see  what  I  see." 

"I  should  have  more  sympathy  with  them  than  you,  if 
I  did." 

"What  do  you  mean?  D'you  think  I  don't  pity  them? 
That's  what  I  meant  when  I  said  'Life  is  so  grey!'  " 

346 


BIRTH 


347 


"And  that's  what  I  meant  when  I  said  you  don't  sym- 
pathise with  them." 

"Please  explain." 

"I  don't  think  you'd  understand." 

"I  admit  I  haven't  your  perception  or  your  intellect,  or  I 
should  be  you  instead  of  being  what  I  am." 

"Did  you  or  did  you  not  dive  into  the  water  just  now?" 

"I  did." 

"And  did  you  or  did  you  not  ride  over  the  meadow  bare- 
backed with  that  friendly  horse?" 

"I  did." 

"And  after  that  you  can  say  that  life  is  grey?" 

"Well— it  is." 

"You're  incorrigible." 

"My  dear  man,  in  my  work  in  hospital  I  come  across  such 
hopeless  misery.  I  tell  you,  you  have  no  idea.  You  can't 
imagine  .  .  ." 

I  can  imagine  anything." 

"It  is  you  who  are  arrogant." 

"I  said  you  were  unsympathetic.  You  know  much,  but 
you  understand  nothing  at  all,  and,  therefore,  you  have  no 
business  to  be  a  doctor." 

"Indeed?    I  can  be  what  I  choose." 

'There  are  some  things  which  should  not  be  done  except 
by  the  people  who  understand — doctoring  is  one  of  them." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"What  I  say— You  say  'Life  is  so  grey/  That  means 
that  though  in  your  work  you  come  in  contact,  as  you  say, 
with  hopeless,  ghastly  misery,  it  has  taught  you  nothing.  I 
could  tell  you  a  great  deal,  but  it  wouldn't  be  any  use, 
simply  because  you  would  not  understand  .  .  ." 

Braithwaite's  pipe  went  out.  He  stopped  to  clean  it 
with  a  reed  which  he  plucked  with  a  lazy  hand. 

"Try    .    .    .» 

"Women  understand  more  often  than  men,  by  sheer  in- 
stinct and  perception.  That  is  why  in  the  under  classes  the 
women  are  so  often  superior  to  the  men,  even  for  bare  me- 
chanical purposes.  .  .  .  Women  know  the  joy  that  lies 
behind  great  misery.  .  .  .  They  know  that  the  force  of 


348   THE  GREAT  MODERN  ENGLISH  STORIES 

the  world,  or  the  life  force,  or  whatever  you  like  to  call  it, 
is  a  thing  which  laughs  and  cries  at  the  same  time — and — 
and  I  tell  you,  that  so  far  as  a  man  is  sufficiently  and  truly 
himself  to  laugh  and  cry  at  the  same  time,  so  far  is  he  a 
master  of  life,  and  mastery  of  life  is  the  true  aim  and  end 
of  all  human  endeavour  .  .  ." 

"I  don't  see  what  you  mean;  but  go  on." 

"The  perfect  man,  the  master  of  life,  is  he  in  whom 
thought  and  instinct  are  most  absolutely  balanced,  but  there 
is  no  perfect  man — which  is  just  as  well,  for  he  would  die 
at  once  from  sheer  acceptance  of  things.  But  the  balance  is 
not  in  one  man,  never  can  be — it  was  in  the  legendary 
Christ,  I  suppose — but  in  all  men,  in  the  whole  world.  In 
spite  of  all  the  waste,  and  friction,  hideous  distortion  and 
terror,  it  is  there;  if  it  weren't  there,  the  world  would  burst. 
Though  a  man  may  be  mad,  the  world  is  sane.  Now  do  you 
see  what  I  mean?" 

"No." 

"You  look  puzzled,  and  I  believe  that  I  could  make  you 
see.  The  germ  of  understanding  is  in  all  of  us.  ... 
Well,  do  you  still  say  that  'Life  is  so  grey'?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  You  simply  don't  know  what  I  know.  You 
theorise  about  life  and  work  yourself  into  an  exalted  state 
of  optimism.  Come  with  me  some  night  and  I'll  make  you 
see." 

"I  think  I  shall  make  you  see." 

"You  will  come?" 

"Very  well.    When?" 

"Next  Tuesday?" 

"Dine  with  me.  Or  call  for  me  at  the  hospital  and  we'll 
go  down.  I'm  on  maternity  cases." 

"Maternity!     By  God!    You  shall  see." 

Braithwaite  rose,  took  the  punt  pole  and  pushed  out  from 
the  bank.  His  friend,  Martin,  restored  the  water-fly  with 
its  broken  wing  to  its  natural  element,  waved  an  elaborate 
farewell  to  the  friendly  horse  with  whom  he  had  galloped 
over  the  golden  meadow,  and  they  returned  up-stream  to 
Eynsham,  and  thence  back  to  London  .  .  . 

On  the  following  Tuesday  Braithwaite  called  for  Martin 


BIRTH  349 

at  the  hospital.  Martin's  pleasant  face  wore  the  worried  ex- 
pression which  he  considered  professional,  and  he  was  rather 
cross  and  officious,  which  he  also  considered  professional. 
Braithwaite  was  moody  and  silent.  He  had  been  among  the 
very  poor  before,  but  always  alone  and  as  a  "sympathetic," 
as  he  was  pleased  to  call  himself,  and  at  the  moment  he  was 
bitterly  resenting  his  friend's  hard  and  purely  professional 
attitude  of  mind. 

Martin,  a  little  hurt  by  his  silence,  turned  to  him  and 
said:  "Anything  wrong?" 

"No.    I  was  thinking." 

"You  always  are." 

"I  was  thinking  how  perfectly  intolerable  the  practice  of 
your  profession  would  be  to  you,  if  you  were  me." 

They  walked  swiftly  through  -^ell-lighted  streets  where 
there  were  crowds  of  men  and  women,  girls  and  young  men, 
strangely  clad,  many  of  them;  and  men  with  odd  Eastern 
faces;  Semites  and  Slavs,  contrasting  vividly  in  their  alert- 
ness and  swift  change  of  expression  with  the  slower,  heavier, 
narrow  astuteness  of  the  Cockney  type.  The  life  and  move- 
ment in  the  streets  produced  excitement  in  Braithwaite  and 
he  returned  the  smile  which  a  prostitute  cast  at  him.  Mar- 
tin saw  it,  and  misunderstood. 

They  turned  out  of  the  stream  into  a  narrow  lane,  where 
slatternly  women  were  sitting  gossiping  on  the  doorsteps  and 
men  in  varying  states  of  intoxication  were  reeling  home.  Of 
the  drunken  men  the  majority  were  English,  none  were  Jews. 
At  a  corner  of  the  lane  was  a  little  public  house.  Two  men 
were  standing  in  the  gutter.  One  played  a  whistle  and 
the  other  a  guitar.  They  were  low  Italians.  On  the  shoul- 
der of  one  of  them  sat  a  small  monkey,  alert  and  bright, 
combing  its  black  little  fingers  through  its  master's^  greasy 
hair.  Braithwaite  stopped  to  caress  it.  Martin  hurried  him 
along.  They  turned  the  corner  past  the  public  house  into 
another  lane,  lower,  narrower,  more  squalid  than  the  first. 
On  the  doorsteps  sat  women  more  slatternly  than  the  others, 
more  heavy,  less  interested.  In  the  gutter  among  orange- 
peel,  scraps  of  paper,  and  mud,  lay  a  man.  As  they  passed 
him  a  little  woman  rushed  out  of  a  house,  pounced  on  him, 


350   THE  GREAT  MODERN.  ENGLISH  STORIES 

kicked  him,  beat  him,  screamed  at  him,  and  finally  felt  in  his 
pockets,  and  finding  no  money,  left  him. 

Martin  stopped  a  mean,  mealy-faced  little  man  and  asked 
him  for  the  house  of  such  and  such  a  one. 

"That's  'im,"  said  the  mealy-faced  man,  pointing  to  the 
man  in  the  gutter. 

"That's  the  father,"  said  Martin  to  Braithwaite.  "Life 
at  its  rottenest." 

"Life— still,  it  is  life." 

They  came  to  the  door  of  a  house;  a  mean  door,  a  bat- 
tered, blistered  door,  that  bore  the  marks  of  heavily  shod 
feet.  There  was  neither  bell  nor  knocker.  Martin  kicked. 
There  was  no  sign  of  life  in  the  house.  Martin  kicked  again 
and  they  waited. 

"How  about  your  theories  now?" 

"Wait." 

"There  is  nothing  to  hope  for.  Poor  devils  .  .  .  what 
you  will  see  inside!  .  .  ." 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  woman  stark  naked  except  for 
a  dirty  pink  petticoat  thrown  hastily  over  her  shoulders. 
Braithwaite  took  cff  his  hat  to  her  politely.  She  swore  at 
him  cheerfully.  Martin  passed  in  and  the  woman  asked 
them  to  go  upstairs. 

"She's  bad,"  she  said.  "Mind  the  stairs,  there's  a  'ole  in 
them.  Wait  while  I  get  a  light." 

She  disappeared  into  the  darkness,  to  return  in  a  moment 
holding  a  tallow  candle  in  her  hand,  over  her  head,  so  that 
the  grease  dripped  down  every  now  and  then  on  to  her  hair. 
By  the  light  of  the  candle  they  could  see  the  stairs  rising 
steeply  in  front  of  them  within  a  few  feet  of  the  door.  The 
banisters  were  gone  and  one  or  two  stairs  were  broken. 
There  were  great  holes  in  the  plaster  of  the  wall,  and  part 
of  the  ceiling  of  the  passage  bulged  ominously.  There  was  a 
vile  thickness  in  the  air  and  a  smell  of  garlic  from  the 
ground  floor  room,  from  the  door  of  which  peered  a  thick- 
*  nosed  Jew.  They  ascended  the  stairs,  the  woman  first, 
Martin  next,  and  then  Braithwaite,  who  kept  wondering  with 
'amusement  why  the  woman  preferred  not  to  wash  her  feet 
and  legs.  At  the  top  of  the  stairs  they  turned  sharp  to  the 


BIRTH  351 

left  and  entered  a  room,  lit  only  by  moonbeams  struggling 
through  the  little  window,  the  panes  of  which  were  broken, 
stuffed  with  rags,  plastered,  where  cracked,  with  paper,  or 
grimily  opaque.  There  were  two  beds  in  the  room.  In 
one  lay  a  man  snoring  and  at  the  foot  two  children  asleep. 
It  was  a  crazy  iron  bedstead  and  the  bedclothes  were  stale 
and  frowsy.  The  woman  jabbed  with  her  thumb  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  opposite  corner  of  the  room,  threw  off  her 
petticoat,  and  prepared  to  slide  into  bed.  She  stopped, 
however,  with  her  knee  on  the  edge  of  the  mattress: 

"Theer  ain't  nothin'  I  c'n  dew?" 

"You  can  help,"  said  Martin.  From  the  other  corner  of 
the  room  there  came  moaning,  moaning. 

"Is  there  any  brandy  in  the  house?"  said  Martin. 

"I  got  some  this  arternoon  thinkhV  it  might  be  wanted. 
I  'ad  to  'ide  it." 

She  rummaged  under  the  mattress  of  the  bed  and  pro- 
duced a  flat  bottle  of  coarse  green  glass,  filled  with  brown 
liquor. 

"She's  not  strong.  .  .  .  An*  the  last  time  nearly 
killed  'er,  she  told  me.  She  wasn't  livin'  'ere  then." 

All  the  time  she  was  dressing,  getting  into  her  clothes. 
Braithwaite  sat  on  the  table,  the  chairs  all  looked  too  crazy 
and  perilous. 

The  woman  in  travail  moaned,  and  moaned,  and  occa- 
sionally cried  in  fear.  She  opened  her  eyelids  and  gazed 
with  heavy  fevered  eyes  at  Martin.  Braithwaite  moved  and 
stood  by  her  side.  She  rolled  her  head  on  the  hard  dirty 
pillow  and  tears  streamed  down  her  cheeks,  but  through  her 
tears  she  smiled  at  him,  and  reached  out  her  thin  arm. 
He  understood,  and  held  out  his  hand  which  she  clutched 
tightly.  He  sat  there  holding  her  hand,  and  he  looked  up  at 
Martin,  but  quickly  away  again,  for  there  was  nothing  but 
disinterest  in  his  eyes. 

Presently  the  tears  of  the  woman  in  travail  ceased  to  flow, 
as  the  pain  grew  in  her,  and  her  breathing  came  fast  and 
fast,  and  sanity  left  her  eyes;  they  stared  hard  and  glitter- 
ing, senseless  and  yet  questioning,  in  Braithwaite's  direction, 
and  tightly  she  held  his  hand.  Through  this  contact  he 


352   THE  GREAT  MODERN,  ENGLISH  STORIES 

could  feel  the  warm  life  in  her,  the  outgoing  and  the 
struggle.  In  all  his  veins  his  blood  boiled,  and  he  could  feel 
a  sort  of  faint  echo  in  himself  of  her  agony.  Tightly  she 
held  his  hand. 

Martin  and  the  woman  were  busy  fetching  water,  towels, 
warm  clothes,  and  the  three  of  them  were  there,  waiting 
.  .  .  waiting.  In  the  other  bed  the  man  stirred,  turned 
in  his  sleep,  cursed  tranquilly  in  a  gentle  dreamy  voice,  and 
kicked  one  of  the  children  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  It  cried 
out,  then  slept,  and  silence  came  again. 

So  they  waited,  and  the  woman  moaned,  twisted  and 
moaned,  and  a  feeling  surged  in  Braithwaite's  body,  so  that 
the  veins  in  his  temples  swelled,  and  he  choked.  The  woman 
gathered  strength,  all  her  forces,  and  all  the  while  she 
clutched  his  hand  tighter  and  tighter.  .  .  .  Agony  grew. 
.  .  .  Unbearable.  Braithwaite's  eyes  started  from  his 
head;  he  found  his  tongue  between  his  teeth  and  bit  it. 
.  .  .  He  saw  Martin  bend  swiftly  over  the  woman  and 
lay  something  white  over  her  mouth.  .  .  .  Then  his  head 
sank  on  his  breast,  he  heard  a  buzzing,  whispering  voices, — 
and  he  knew  no  more.  .  .  . 

Far,  far  away,  remote,  distant,  hazy,  he  heard  a  great 
glad  cry  greeting  the  world.  .  .  .  Such  a  cry 

When  he  came  to  himself  he  found  Martin  pouring  brandy 
down  his  throat,  and  the  woman  still  holding  his  hand,  and 
he  was  glad — oh!  glad  .  .  . 

On  a  chair  near  the  bed  the  other  woman  was  holding  a 
white  bundle  in  her  arms,  crooning  over  it,  rocking  to  and 
fro,  and  her  eyes  shone.  .  .  . 

He  looked  up  into  Martin's  face  and  saw  that  there  were 
tears  in  his  eyes. 

They  waited  until  the  mother  was  restored  to  conscious- 
ness. Braithwaite  stooped  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead. 
She  smiled  tenderly  at  him,  with  a  tenderness  the  greater 
for  her  large  weariness.  For  a  moment  he  took  the  child 
in  his  arms,  then  laid  it  by  her  side  so  that  its  head  lay  on 
her  arm.  Again  she  smiled  at  him. 

He  laid  two  pieces  of  gold  on  the  mantelpiece  and  to- 
gether they  went,  he  and  Martin,  down  the  crazy  stairs,  out 


BIRTH  353 

into  the  squalid  street,  past  the  father  who  lay  there  still 
in  the  gutter    .    .    . 

They  spoke  no  word,  not  even  when  they  separated,  to 
bid  each  other  "Good-night." 


BIOGRAPHIES  AND  BIBLIOGRAPHIES 

NOTE:  Volumes  of  short  stories  are  indicated  by  an  as- 
terisk. 

BARRIE,  SIR  JAMES  MATTHEW. 

Born  at  Kirriemuir,  Scotland,  May  9,  1860.  Educated  at 
Dumfries  Academy  and  Edinburgh  University. 

Author  of  *"Better  Dead,"  1887.  *"Auld  Licht  Idylls," 
1888.  "Edinburgh  Eleven,"  1888.  "When  a  Man's  Single," 
1888.  *" Window  in  Thrums,"  1889.  "My  Lady  Nicotine," 
1890.  "Little  Minister,"  1891.  "Professor's  Love  Story," 

1895.  "Sentimental  Tommy,"  1896.     "Margaret  Ogilvy," 

1896.  "Tommy  and   Grizel,"   1900.     "Wedding  Guest," 
1900.    "Little  White  Bird,"  1902.    "Quality  Street,"  1903. 
"Admirable  Crichton,"  1903.    "Little  Mary,"  1903.    "Peter 
Pan,"  1904.    "Alice  Sit-by-the-Fire,"  1905.    "Peter  Pan  in 
Kensington  Gardens,"  1906.  "What  Every  Woman  Knows," 
1908.    "Peter  and  Wendy,"  1911.    "Legend  of  Leonora," 
1913.    "Will,"  1913.    "Adored  One,"  1913.    "Half-Hours," 
1913.    "Der  Tag,"  1914.    "Rosy  Rapture,"  1915.    "Kiss 
for  Cinderella,"  1916.  "Old  Lady  Shows  Her  Medals,"  1917- 
"Seven  Women,"  1917.    "Echoes  of  the  War,"  1918.   "Dear 
Brutus,"  1918. 

BERESFORD,  JOHN  DAVYS. 

Born  March  7,  1873.  Educated  at  Oundle  and  Peter- 
borough. Practised  architecture  in  London  for  many  years. 

Author  of  "Early  History  of  Jacob  Stahl,"  1911.  "Hamp- 
denshire  Wonder,"  1911.  "Candidate  for  Truth,"  1912. 
"Goslings,"  1913.  "House  in  Demetrius  Road,"  1914.  "In- 

355 


356     BIOGRAPHIES  AND  BIBLIOGRAPHIES 

visible  Event,"  1915.    "Mountains  of  the  Moon,"  1915.  "H. 
G.   Wells,"    1915.     "Essays,"    1915.   "These  Lynnekers," 

1916.  "House  Mates,"  1917.    "W.  E.  Ford:  A  Biography" 
(with  Kenneth  Richmond),  1917.    "God's  Counterpoint," 
1918. 

BLACKWOOD,  ALGERNON. 

Born  1869.  Educated  at  a  Moravian  School  in  the  Black 
Forest,  Wellington  College,  and  Edinburgh  University.  Has 
travelled  widely.  Farmed  and  mined  in  Canada,  ran  a 
hotel,  and  was  a  reporter  on  New  York  newspapers. 

Author  of  *"Empty  House,"  1906.  ^"Listeners,"  1907. 
*"John  Silence,"  1908.  "Education  of  Uncle  Paul,"  1909. 
"Jimbo,"  1909.  "Human  Chord,"  1910.  *"Lost  Valley," 
1910.  "Centaur,"  1911.  *"Pan's  Garden,"  1912.  "Pris- 
oner in  Fairyland,"  1913.  *"Ten  Minute  Stories,"  1913. 
*"Incredible  Adventures,"  1914.  "Extra  Day,"  1915.  "Star- 
light Express"  (with  Violet  Pearn),  1916.  "Julius  Le  Val- 
lon,"  1916.  "Wave,"  1916.  *"Day  and  Night  Stories," 

1917.  "Promise  of  Air,"   1918.     "Karma"    (with  Violet 
Pearn),  1918.    "Garden  of  Survival,"  1918. 


CANNAN,  GILBERT. 

Born  1884.  Educated  at  Manchester  and  Cambridge  Uni- 
versity. Has  practised  law  and  written  dramatic  criti- 
cism. 

Author  of  "Peter  Homunculus,"  1909.  "Devious  Ways," 
1910.  "Wedding  Presents,"  1912.  "Perfect  Widow,"  1912. 
"Little  Brother,"  1912.  "Round  the  Corner,"  1913.  "Joy 
of  the  Theatre,"  1913.  "Four  Plays,"  1913.  "Old  Mole," 

1914.  "Love,"  1914.    "Satire,"  1914.    "Young  Earnest," 

1915.  "Samuel  Butler,"  1915.    "Windmills,"  1915.    "Ad- 
venturous Love,"  1915.  "Three  Pretty  Men,"  1916.  "Three 
Sons  and  a  Mother,"  1916.    "Mendel,"  1916.    "Everybody's 
Husband,"  1917.    "Freedom,"  1917.    "Noel,"  1917.    "Stuc- 
co House,"  1918.    "Mummery,"  1918. 


BIOGRAPHIES  AND  BIBLIOGRAPHIES.    357 


BURKE,  THOMAS. 

Born  1887.  Lives  in  London.  Contributor  to  English 
Review,  Pall  Mall  Gazette,  Daily  Chronicle,  Book  Monthly, 
London  Opinion,  and  many  others. 

Author  of  "Nights  in  Town,"  1915.  *"Limehouse  Nights," 

1916.  "Twinkletoes,"    1917.      "London    Lamps,"    1917. 
*"Out  and  About  London,"  1919. 

CUNNINGHAME  GRAHAM,  ROBERT  BONTINE. 

Born  in  1852.  Educated  at  Harrow.  In  Parliament, 
1886-92. 

Author  of  "Notes  on  the  District  of  Monteith,"  1895. 
"Father  Archangel  of  Scotland"  (with  Mrs.  Cunninghame 
Graham),  1896.  "Aurora  la  Cujini,"  1898.  "Mogreb  el 
Acksa,"  1898.  "Ipane,"  1899.  *"Thirteen  Stories,"  1900. 
"Vanished  Arcadia,"  1901.  *"Success,"  1902.  "Life  of 
Hernando  de  Soto,"  1903.  *"Progress,"  1905.  "His  Peo- 
ple," 1906.  *"Faith,"  1909.  *"Hope,"  1910.  *"Charity," 
1912.  "Hatchment,"  1913.  "Life  of  Bernal  Diaz  del  Cas- 
tillo," 1915.  *"Brought  Forward,"  1916. 

DE  SELINCOURT,  HUGH. 

Author  of  "Great  Ralegh,"i9o8.  "A  Fair  House,"  1911. 
"A  Daughter  of  the  Morning,"  1912.  "A  Soldier  of  Life," 

1917.  *"Nine  Tales,"  1918. 

DOWSON,  ERNEST. 

Born  at  Lea  in  Kent,  1867.  Educated  at  Queen's  Col- 
lege, Oxford.  He  wrote  much  poetry  between  1889  and 
1899,  mostly  in  France,  where  he  spent  much  of  his  life. 
He  was  the  author  of  a  dramatic  phantasy  in  verse  entitled 
"The  Pierrot  of  the  Minute,"  in  1897.  He  also  translated 
many  French  and  other  works  of  literary  value.  He  was 


358     BIOGRAPHIES  AND  BIBLIOGRAPHIES 

a  member  of  the  famous  Rhymers'  Club  of  England.    Died 
of  phthisis  Feb.  21,  1900. 

Author  of  "Souvenirs  of  an  Egoist,"  1888.  "The  Cult  of 
the  Child,"  1889.  "The  Diary  of  a  Successful  Man,"  1890. 
"The  Story  of  a  Violin,"  1891.  "The  Statute  of  Limita- 
tions," 1893.  "A  Comedy  of  Masks,"  1893.  "Apple  Blos- 
som in  Brittany,"  1894.  *"Dilemmas,"  1895.  "The  Eyes 
of  Pride,"  1896.  "Countess  Marie  of  the  Angels,"  1896. 
"The  Dying  of  Francis  Donne,"  1896.  "Adrian  Rome" 
(with  Arthur  Moore),  1899. 


EGERTON,    GEORGE     (Mrs.    GOLDING    BRIGHT) 
(MARY  CHAVELITA). 

Born  at  Melbourne,  Australia,  in  camp  at  Tauranga  dur- 
ing Maori  War;  went  in  sailing  vessel  to  Valparaiso  and 
arrived  during  bombardment;  thence  to  Wales  and  Ireland; 
since  worked  in  America  and  London;  been  in  most  coun- 
tries in  Europe.  Educated  privately.  Intended  for  an  artist, 
but  family  affairs  prevented  course  of  study  as  intended; 
writing  came  as  an  afterthought. 

Author  of  "Keynotes,"  1893.  "Discords,"  1894.  "Young 
Ofeg's  Ditties,"  1895.  "Symphonies,"  1897.  "Fantasias," 
1898.  "The  Wheel  of  God,"  1898.  "Rosa  Amorosa,"  1901. 
"Flies  in  Amber,"  1905.  "His  Wife's  Family"  (Play),  1908. 
"The  Backsliders"  (Play),  1910.  "The  Rafale"  (Adapta- 
tion), 1911.  "The  Daughter  of  Heaven"  (Adaptation), 
1912.  "The  Attack"  (Adaptation),  1912.  "Wild  Thyme, 
Flers  et  Caillavet"  (Adaptation),  1914. 


EVANS,  CARADOC. 

Novelist  and  journalist.  Born  Pantycroy,  Llandyssul, 
Wales.  Educated  Rhydlewis  Board  School,  Cardiganshire; 
Working  Man's  College,  London.  Apprenticed  to  a  Carmar- 
then draper  at  thirteen  and  employed  for  about  twelve  years 
at  various  London  and  provincial  drapery  shops;  later 


-BIOGRAPHIES  AND  BIBLIOGRAPHIES    359 

joined  editorial  staffs  of  Everybody's  Weekly,  Harmsworth's 
History  of  the  World,  etc. 

Author  of  *"My  People,"  1915.     *"Capel  Sion  "  1916. 
*"My  Neighbours,"  1918. 


HARDY,  THOMAS. 

Born  in  Dorsetshire,  June  2,  1840.  Educated  at  local 
schools  and  privately.  Practised  architecture. 

Author  of  novels,  short  stories,  poems  and  plays:  "Des- 
perate Remedies,"  1871.  "Under  the  Greenwood  Tree," 
1872.  "A  Pair  of  Blue  Eyes,"  1873.  "Far  From  the  Mad- 
ding Crowd,"  1874.  "Hand  of  Ethelberta,"  1876.  "Return 
of  the  Native,"  1878.  "Trumpet-Major,"  1879.  "Laodi- 
cean," 1881.  "Two  on  a  Tower,"  1882.  "Mayor  of  Cas- 
terbridge,"  1884.  "Woodlanders,"  1886.  *"Wessex  Tales," 
1888.  *"A  Group  of  Noble  Dames,"  1891.  "Tess  of  the 
D'Urbervilles,"  1891.  ^"Life's  Little  Ironies,"  1894.  "Jude 
the  Obscure,"  1895.  "Well-Beloved,"  1897.  "Wessex 
Poems,"  1898.  "Poems  of  the  Past  and  the  Present,"  1901. 
"Dynasts,"  1903-1908.  "Time's  Laughing-Stocks,"  1909. 
*"A  Changed  Man,"  1913.  "Satires  of  Circumstance,"  1914. 
"Selected  Poems,"  1916.  "Moments  of  Vision,"  1918. 

HEWLETT,  MAURICE  (HENRY). 

Born  Jan.  22,  1861.  Educated  at  London  International 
College,  Spring  Grove,  Islesworth.  Practised  law,  and  has 
occupied  government  civil  service  position. 

Author  of  *"Earthwork  Out  of  Tuscany,"  1895.  "Masque 
of  Dead  Florentines,"  1895.  "Songs  and  Meditations,"  1897. 
"Forest  Lovers,"  1898.  "Pan  and  the  Young  Shepherd,"' 
1898.  *"Little  Novels  of  Italy,"  1899.  "Richard  Yea-and- 
Nay,"  1900.  *"New  Canterbury  Tales,"  1901.  "Queen's 
Quair,"  1904.  "Road  in  Tuscany,"  1904.  *"Fond  Adven- 
tures," 1905.  "Fool  Errant,"  1905.  "Stooping  Lady,"  1907. 
"Half-way  House,"  1908.  "Open  Country,"  1909.  "Arte- 
mision,"  1909.  "Rest  Harrow,"  1910.  "Brazenhead  the 


360     BIOGRAPHIES  AND  BIBLIOGRAPHIES 

Great,"  1911.  "Agonists,"  1911.  "Song  of  Renny,"  1911. 
"Mrs.  Lancelot,"  1912.  "Helen  Redeemed,"  1913.  "Lore 
of  Proserpine,"  1913.  "Bendish,"  1913.  "Lover's  Tale," 
1915.  "Little  Iliad,"  1916.  "Frey  and  His  Wife,"  1916. 
"Gai  Saber,"  1916.  "Song  of  the  Plow,"  1916.  "Thorgils," 
1917. 

HUDSON,  W.  H. 

An  Englishman  born  in  South  America,  1862;  grew  up 
on  a  big  ranch.  He  is  shy  and  dislikes  to  give  information 
about  himself.  When  asked  for  biographical  data  he  says: 
"All  the  interesting  part  of  my  life  ended  when  I  ceased 
to  be  a  boy,  and  my  autobiography  ends  at  fifteen."  He 
is  a  naturalist  with  ornithology  his  chief  bent.  Living  in 
England  since  the  early  eighties  of  last  century. 

Author  of  "The  Purple  Land,"  1885.  "Argentine  Orni- 
thology" (with  P.  L.  Sclater),  1889.  "Naturalist  in  La 
Plata,"  1892.  "Birds  in  a  Village,"  1893.  "Idle  Days  in 
Patagonia,"  1893.  "British  Birds,"  1895.  "Birds  in  Lon- 
don," 1899.  "Nature  in  Downland,"  1900.  "Birds  and  Man," 
1901.  *"E1  Ombu,"  1902.  "Hampshire  Days,"  1903. 
"Green  Mansions,"  1904.  "Crystal  Age,"  1906.  "Lands 
End,"  1908.  "Afoot  in  England,"  1909.  "Shepherd's  Life," 
1910.  "Adventures  Among  Birds,"  1913.  *"Tales  of  the 
Pampas,"  1916.  "A  Little  Boy  Lost,"  1918.  "Far  Away 
and  Long  Ago,"  1918. 

KIPLING,  RUDYARD 

Born  at  Bombay,  India,  Dec.  30,  1865.  Educated  at 
United  Service  College,  Westward  Ho,  North  Devon.  As- 
sistant editor,  Civil  and  Military  Gazette  and  Pioneer  (In- 
dia), 1882-89.  Has  travelled  widely  over  the  world. 

Author  of  "Departmental  Ditties,"  1886.  *"Plain  Tales 
from  the  Hills,"  1887.  *"Soldiers  Three,"  1888.  *"In 
Black  and  White,"  1888.  *"Story  of  the  Gadsbys,"  1888. 
*"Under  the  Deodars,"  1889.  *"Phantom  Rickshaw," 
1889.  *"Wee  Willie  Winkie,"  1889.  *"Life's  Handicap," 


BIOGRAPHIES  AND  BIBLIOGRAPHIES    361 

1890.  *"Light  That  Failed,"  1891.  "Barrack-Room  Bal- 
lads," 1892.  *"Many  Inventions,"  1893.  *"Jungle  Book," 
1894.  *"Second  Jungle  Book,"  1895.  "Seven  Seas,"  1896. 
"Captains  Courageous,"  1897.  *"Day's  Work,"  1898. 
*"Stalky  and  Co.,"  1899.  "From  Sea  to  Sea,"  1899.  "Kim," 
1901.  *"Just  So  Stories,"  1902.  "Five  Nations,"  1903. 
^Traffics  and  Discoveries,"  1904.  *"Puck  of  Pook's  Hill," 
1906.  ^"Actions  and  Reactions,"  1909.  *"Rewards  and 
Fairies,"  1910.  "History  of  England"  (with  C.  R.  L. 
Fletcher),  1911.  "Songs  from  Books,"  1913.  "Harbour 
Watch,"  1913.  "New  Armies  in  Training,"  1914.  "France 
at  War,"  1915.  "Fringes  of  the  Fleet,"  1915.  "Sea  War- 
fare," 1916.  *"A  Diversity  of  Creatures,"  1917.  "Eyes  of 
Asia,"  1918.  "Gethsemane,"  1919. 

LAWRENCE,  DAVID  HERBERT 

Born  1885. 

Author  of  "White  Peacock,"  1911.  "Trespasser,"  1912. 
"Sons  and  Lovers,"  1913.  "Love  Poems,  and  Others,"  1913. 
*"Prussian  Officer,"  1914.  "Widowing  of  Mrs.  Holroyd," 
1914.  "Rainbow,"  1915.  "Twilight  in  Italy,"  1916. 
"Amores,"  1916.  "Lookl  We  Have  Come  Through,"  1917. 

"MACLEOD,  FIONA,"  See  SHARP,  WILLIAM 
MIDDLETON;  RICHARD 

Born  1882.    Died  1911. 

Author  of  "Day  Before  Yesterday,"  1912.  "Ghost  Ship," 
1912.  "Poems  and  Songs"  (First  and  Second  Series),  1912. 
"Monologues,"  1913. 

NEVINSON,  HENRY  WOODD. 

Born  in  1852.  Educated  at  Shrewsbury  School,  Christ 
Church,  Oxford.  Correspondent  of  the  Daily  Chronicle 
during  Greek  and  Turkish  War,  1897;  in  Crete,  1897;  in 


362     BIOGRAPHIES  AND  BIBLIOGRAPHIES 

Spain,  1898;  and  in  Natal  and  Transvaal  during  the  Boer 
War.  Was  in  Berlin  for  the  Daily  News  at  outbreak  of  war, 
August,  1914;  afterwards  in  Northern  France.  With  Brit- 
ish army  at  Salonika  and  Egypt,  1916. 

Author  of  "Neighbors  of  Ours,"  1895.  "In  the  Valley 
of  Tophet,"  1896.  "The  Thirty  Days'  War,"  1898.  "Lady- 
smith,"  1900.  "The  Plea  of  Pan,"  1901.  "Between  the 
Acts,"  1903.  Chapters  on  France  in  Mr.  Hallam  Murray's 
"On  the  Old  Road,"  1904.  "Books  and  Personalities," 

1905.  "A  Modern  Slavery,"  1906.    "The  Dawn  in  Russia," 

1906.  Series  of  Articles  on  the  Caucasus  in  "Harper's 
Monthly,"  1907.    "The  New  Spirit  in  India,"  1908.    "Es- 
says in  Freedom,"  1912.    "Essays  in  Rebellion,"  1913. 

PERTWEE,  ROLAND. 

A  young  Englishman  who  has  contributed  many  short 
stories  to  American  and  English  magazines. 

Author  of  *"The  Transactions  of  Lord  Louis  Lewis," 
1918.  "The  Old  Cord,"  1918. 

QUILLER-COUCH,  SIR  ARTHUR  THOMAS. 

Born  in  Cornwall,  Nov.  21,  1863.  Educated  at  Newton 
Abbot  College,  Clifton  College,  and  Oxford.  Lecturer  at 
Trinity  College,  Oxford,  1886-87.  Engaged  in  editorial 
work  1887-1899.  Professor  of  English  Literature  at  Cam- 
bridge University  since  1912. 

Author  of  "Dead  Man's  Rock,"  1887.  "Troy  Town," 
1888.  "Splendid  Spur,"  1889.  ^"Noughts  and  Crosses, 

1891.  "Blue  Pavilions,"   1891.     *"I  Saw  Three  Ships," 

1892.  "Warwickshire  Avon,"  1892.    *"Delectable  Duchy," 

1893.  "Green  Bays,"  1893.     *"Wandering  Heath,"  1895. 
"Golden  Pomp,"  1895.    "la,"  1896.    "Adventures  in  Crit- 
icism," 1896.  "Poems  and  Ballads,"  1896.  "St.  Ives,"  (with 
R.  L.  Stevenson)    1897.     "Ship  of  Stars,"   1899.     *"Old 
Fires  and  Profitable  Ghosts,"  1900.    "Oxford  Book  of  Eng- 
lish Verse,"  1900.     *"Laird's  Luck,"  1901.     "Westcotes," 
1902.    *"White  Wolf,"  1902.    "Adventures  of  Harry  Revel," 


BIOGRAPHIES  AND  BIBLIOGRAPHIES    363 

1903.  "Hetty  Wesley,"  1903.  *"Two  Sides  of  the  Face," 
1903.  "Fort  Amity,"  1904.  "Shining  Ferry,"  1905. 
*" Shakespeare's  Christmas,"  1905.  "From  a  Cornish  Win- 
dow," 1906.  "Sir  John  Constantine,"  1906.  "Poison  Isl- 
and," 1907.  "Merry  Garden,"  1907.  "Major  Vigoureux," 
1907.  "True  Tilda,"  1909.  "Lady  Good-for-Nothing," 
1910.  ""Corporal  Sam,"  1910.  "Oxford  Book  of  Ballads," 
1910.  "Brother  Copas,"  1911.  "Oxford  Book  of  Victorian 
Verse,"  1912.  "Hocken  and  Hunken,"  1912.  "Vigil  of 
Venus,"  1912.  *"News  from  the  Duchy,"  1915.  "Nicky- 
Nan,  Reservist,"  1915.  "On  the  Art  of  Writing,"  1916. 
"Memoir  of  Arthur  John  Butler,"  1917.  *"Mortallone  and 
Aunt  Trinidad,"  1917.  "Foe-Farrell,"  1918.  "Shakespeare's 
Workmanship,"  1918.  "Studies  in  Literature,"  1918. 

SHARP,  WILLIAM  ("Fiona  Macleod.") 

Born  1856.    Died  1905. 

Principal  works  under  pseudonym  of  "Fiona  Macleod": 
"Pharais,"  1894.  "The  Mountain  Lovers,"  1895.  *"The 
Sin-Eater,"  1895.  *"The  Washer  of  the  Ford,"  1896.  "Green 
Fire,"  1896.  "From  the  Hills  of  Dreams,"  1896.  *"Laugh- 
ter  of  Peterkin,"  1897.  *"The  Dominion  of  Dreams,"  1899. 
"The  Divine  Adventure,"  1900.  "The  Immortal  Hour," 
1900.  "Drostan  and  Iseult,"  1902.  *"The  Winged  Des- 
tiny," 1904.  "Through  the  Ivory  Gate,"  "Where  the  Forest 
Murmurs,"  1906. 

STEVENSON,  ROBERT  LOUIS   (Balfour). 

Born  1850.  Educated  at  Edinburgh  University.  Studied 
engineering  and  law.  Literary  career  began  in  1876.  His 
delicate  health  compelled  him  to  travel  widely  abroad.  He 
settled  in  Samoa  in  1889,  where  he  resided  until  his  death 
in  1894. 

Principal  works:  "An  Island  Voyage,"  1878.  "Deacon 
Brodie,"  1878.  "Travels  With  a  Donkey,"  1879.  "Vir- 
ginibus  Puerisque,"  1881.  "Familiar  Studies  of  Men  and 
Books,"  1882.  "Treasure  Island,"  1882.  *"New  Arabian 


364     BIOGRAPHIES  AND  BIBLIOGRAPHIES 

Nights,"  1882.  "Black  Arrow,"  1883.  "Bean  Austin"  (with 
W.  E.  Henley),  1884.  "Macaire"  (with  W.  E.  Henley), 
1884.  "Admiral  Guinea"  (with  W.  E.  Henley),  1885. 
"Child's  Garden  of  Verses,"  1885.  "Prince  Otto,"  1885. 
*"More  New  Arabian  Nights,"  1885.  "Kidnapped,"  1886. 
"Strange  Case  of  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde,"  1886.  "Mem- 
ories and  Portraits,"  1887.  "Underwood,"  1887.  "Wrong 
Box"  (with  Lloyd  Osbourne),  1888.  "Master  of  Ballan- 
trae,"  1889.  "David  Balfour,"  1893.  *"Island  Nights'  En- 
tertainments," 1893.  "Ebb-Tide"  (with  Lloyd  Osbourne), 
1893.  "Vailima  Letters,"  1893-1894.  "St.  Ives"  (with  A. 
T.  Quiller-Couch),  1895.  "Weir  of  Hermiston,"  1897. 


TREVENA,  JOHN  (ERNEST  G.  HENTRAM). 

Born  in  1878.  Lives  a  very  secluded  existence,  leaving 
Dartmoor  not  more  than  two  or  three  weeks  during  the 
year. 

Author  of  "A  Pixy  in  Petticoats,"  1906.  "Arminal  of  the 
West,"  1907.  "Furze  the  Cruel,"  1907.  "Heather,"  1908. 
"The  Dartmoor  House  that  Jack  Built,"  1909.  "Granite," 
1909.  *"Written  in  the  Rain,"  1910.  "Bracken,"  1910. 
"The  Reign  of  the  Saints,"  1911.  "Wintering  Hay,"  1912. 
"Sleeping  Waters,"  1913.  "Adventures  Among  Wild 
Flowers,"  1914.  "Moyle  Church  Town,"  1915.  "The  Cap- 
tain's Furniture,"  1916.  "A  Drake  by  George!"  1916. 


WALPOLE,  HUGH  SEYMOUR. 

Born  in  1884.  Educated  at  King's  College,  Canterbury, 
and  Cambridge  University.  Served  with  Russian  Red  Cross, 
1914-1916. 

Author  of  "Wooden  Horse,"  1909.  "Maradick  at  Forty," 
1910.  "Mr.  Perrin  and  Mr.  Traill,"  1911.  "Prelude  to  Ad- 
venture," 1912.  "Fortitude,"  1913.  "Duchess  of  Wrexe," 
1914.  "Golden  Scarecrow,"  1915.  "Dark  Forest,"  1916. 
"Joseph  Conrad,"  1916.  "Green  Mirror,"  1918. 


BIOGRAPHIES  AND  BIBLIOGRAPHIES    365 

WATSON,  E.  L.  GRANT. 

Author  of  "Where  Bonds  Are  Loosed,"  1914.    "Main- 
land," 1917. 


WEDMORE,  SIR  FREDERICK. 

Bora  at  Richmond  Hill,  Clifton,  July  9,  1844.  Educated 
at  Weston-Super-Mare,  Lausanne  and  Paris.  Chiefly  known 
as  a  literary  and  art  critic. 

Author  of  "Studies  in  English  Art,"  1876.  *"PastoraIs  of 
France,"  1877.  "Four  Masters  of  Etching,"  1883.  "Meryon," 
1889.  "Life  of  Balzac,"  1890.  *" Renunciations,"  1893. 
*"English  Episodes,"  1895.  "Etching  in  England,"  1895. 
"Fine  Prints,"  1896.  *"Orgeas  and  Miradon,",  1896.  "On 
Books  and  Art,"  1899.  "The  Collapse  of  the  Penitent," 
1900.  *"To  Nancy,"  1903.  "Whistler  and  Others,"  1904. 
"Some  of  the  Moderns,"  1909.  "Etchings,"  1911.  "Mem- 
ories." 1912.  "Painters  and  Painting,"  1913.  "Brenda 
Walks  On,"  1916. 


WELLS,  HERBERT  GEORGE. 

Born  at  Bromley,  Kent,  Sept.  21,  1866.  Educated  at 
private  school,  Milhurst  Grammar  School,  and  Royal  College 
of  Science. 

Author  of  "Select  Conversations  With  an  Uncle,"  1895. 
*"Time  Machine,"  1895.  *"Stolen  Bacillus,"  1895.  "Won- 
derful Visit,"  1895.  "Island  of  Doctor  Moreau,"  1896. 
"Wheels  of  Chance,"  1896.  *"Plattner  Story,"  1897.  "Cer- 
tain Personal  Matters,"  1897.  "Invisible  Man,"  1897.  "War 
of  the  Worlds,"  1898.  "When  the  Sleeper  Wakes,"  1899. 
*"Tales  of  Space  and  Time,"  1899.  "Love  and  Mr.  Lewis- 
ham,"  1900.  "First  Men  in  the  Moon,"  1901.  "Anticipa- 
tions," 1901.  "Discovery  of  the  Future,"  1902.  "Sea 
Lady,"  1902.  "Mankind  in  the  Making,"  1903.  *"Twelve 
Stories  and  a  Dream,"  1903.  "Food  of  the  Gods,"  1904. 


366     BIOGRAPHIES  AND  BIBLIOGRAPHIES 

"A  Modern  Utopia,"  1905.  "Kipps,"  1905.  "In  the  Days 
of  the  Comet,"  1906.  "Future  in  America,"  1906.  "This 
Misery  of  Boots,"  1907.  "New  Worlds  for  Old,"  1908. 
"First  and  Last  Things,"  1908.  "War  in  the  Air,"  1908. 
"Tono  Bungay,"  1909.  "Ann  Veronica,"  1909.  "History 
of  Mr.  Polly,"  1910.  "New  Machiavelli,"  1911.  "Floor 
Games  for  Children,"  1911.  "Marriage,"  1912.  "Little 
Wars,"  1913.  ^"Country  of  the  Blind,"  1913.  "Passionate 
Friends,"  1913.  "Wife  of  Sir  Isaac  Harmon,"  1914.  "An 
Englishman  Looks  at  the  World,"  1914.  "World  Set  Free," 
1914.  "War  That  Will  End  War,"  1914.  "Peace  of  the 
World,"  1915.  "Boon,"  1915.  "Bealby,"  1915.  "Research 
Magnificent,"  1915.  "What  Is  Coming?"  1916.  "Mr. 
Britling  Sees  It  Through,"  1916.  "Elements  of  Recon- 
struction," 1916.  "War  and  the  Future,"  1917.  "God,  the 
Invisible  King,"  1917.  "Soul  of  a  Bishop,"  1917.  "Joan  and 
Peter,"  1918. 


"WILDE,  OSCAR"  (Fingal  O'Flahertie  Wills). 


Born  in  Dublin,  October  16,  1854.  Travelled  widely  in 
Europe  in  his  youth.  Graduated  from  Oxford,  1877.  Went 
to  London  and  became  active  in  literary  circles.  Visited 
America  in  1882  on  a  lecture  tour.  Returned  to  Europe 
and  settled  in  Paris.  Married  in  1884,  after  his  return  to 
England.  Engaged  in  literary  work  until  1895,  when  he 
was  sentenced  to  two  years'  imprisonment.  Left  England 
upon  his  release,  and  died  in  penury  at  Paris,  November 
30,  1900. 

Principal  works:  "Poems,"  1 88 1.  *"The  Happy  Prince," 
1888.  *"Lcrd  Arthur  Savile's  Crime,"  1891.  "The  Soul  of 
Man  Under  Socialism,"  1891.  "Picture  of  Dorian  Gray," 
1891.  "Intentions,"  1891.  *"House  of  Pomegranates," 
1891.  "Lady  Windermere's  Fan,"  1892.  "A  Woman  of  No 
Importance,"  1893.  "Salome,"  1893.  "Ideal  Husband," 
1895.  "Importance  of  Being  Earnest,"  1895.  "Ballad  ol 
Reading  Gaol,"  1898.  "De  Profundis,"  1905.  "Duchess 
of  Padua,"  1891. 


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